


I'd Choose You (In a Hundred Lifetimes)

by AlysFancosm, EnlacingLines, interstelklance (ravenlily), noblegambit, the-noble-idiot (noblegambit), tjmcharg, Valania, zenstrike



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Meetings, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, M/M, Parallel Universes, Rivalry, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate AU, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Yeah we know you love them, all the soulmate aus, body switching, casually watching yourself making out with your rival in alternate realities, coming to terms with destiny, hesitant hand holding, klance, soulmate au: dreams are soulmate's memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 09:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21847558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlysFancosm/pseuds/AlysFancosm, https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnlacingLines/pseuds/EnlacingLines, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenlily/pseuds/interstelklance, https://archiveofourown.org/users/noblegambit/pseuds/noblegambit, https://archiveofourown.org/users/noblegambit/pseuds/the-noble-idiot, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjmcharg/pseuds/tjmcharg, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valania/pseuds/Valania, https://archiveofourown.org/users/zenstrike/pseuds/zenstrike
Summary: When Keith and Lance's squabbling leaves them crash-landed on a strange planet, Slav decides to show them just what a good team they can really be...
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 224
Kudos: 675





	1. Burning Edges and Scars and Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stormie2817](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormie2817/gifts).



> "And I'd choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I'd find you and I'd choose you." - Kiersten White
> 
> Our dear friend stormie2817 has been having a very tough time recently, so the lovely Valania brought us all together to write something for her. Here we are with her favourite trope; we hope you enjoy it!
> 
> stormie2817: this is for you, with our love. You may have found us and brought us together, but we all chose you.

“I’m taking us down there.”

“Keith wait, the storm -”

Keith threw Lance a desperate look, knuckles clenched as tight as his jaw, hair clinging. “Hold on.”

The tiny shuttle bucked as they entered the atmosphere; Slav yelled as he was thrown aside. Flames burst blue over the viewscreen, chasing their shape as they fell. They tumbled, turned over and over, Lance’s seat harness straining, air punched from his lungs. Every alarm was going off, one shrill shriek to join theirs as they plummeted. Colour crashed around them, wind pushing them in all directions, solid rock racing to meet them. Lance barely had time to shut his eyes before they hit. Metal screamed. They lurched upwards, vibration pounding through his braced feet as they skidded along, scoring a line of sparks and scars into the ground. The shuttle sank down as it lost momentum, finally shuddering to a halt with one final, queasy lurch.

Their panting breaths filled the air.

Then a creaking, rising sound made them all shout. The shuttle was slipping sideways, the heavier backend pulling them towards some other drop – no time, no time for anything but to yell. They plunged.

Lance didn’t count the seconds of falling; just felt the moment his body went weightless in his seat, feet lifting from the floor. Then the crunch, the crumple; the hard slam upwards. A metallic crash, a sensation like the air itself was being torn. Lance’s harness saved him; biting cruel bruises into his shoulders but keeping him from breaking his neck against the ceiling. Still, the jolt left hot pain flooding his nape. The shuttle lolled a little, listing sideways, but then went still.

Ringing silence.

The viewscreen was dark, and Lance closed his eyes. His head was jangling like cowbells, feeling and energy twitching in his fingers as his muscles crawled with unspent adrenaline. In the dark it was easier to make out Keith’s wheezing over his own thudding heart.

“Lance? Are you okay?” the Red Paladin rasped.

Lance nodded, letting out a long slow breath, and answered without opening his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. Slav, are you still with us?”

“I think so,” called the engineer, from somewhere behind him and to the right, too high up. “Six, seven, eight – all attached. It seems this is one of the better realities.”

Keith made a hacking sound approximating a laugh; Lance blinked his eyes open and craned to see the other boy twisting in his chair, dangling fringe plastered to his forehead over a vivid scarlet line. “Yeah. This is just great.”

“You’re bleeding,” Lance stated, trembling hands pawing at the clasp of his harness. He practically fell out of his seat, and had to take a moment to check they really weren’t still moving, legs swaying beneath him like a tide. The cockpit was a crooked mess; the floor buckled up and the ceiling in, so reaching Keith was a clumsy scramble. The other boy shied away from Lance’s hands when he reached to take his chin.

“It’s fine.”

“Shut up a minute.”

Perhaps Keith was still shaken up, because he actually did; allowing Lance to gently lift his jaw and brush carefully at the sticky hair. He seemed to hold his breath when Lance leaned in, whisper close. Keith had a gash running from near the hairline and down to just past his eyebrow, weeping blood like head-wounds always seemed to, but the cut itself was clean and not too deep. Still, Keith didn’t release his breath until Lance moved back, and even then his eyes darted frantically about the cockpit in a panic.

“It’s not too bad, but it could scar. Hey -” Keith’s cheekbones were blotching pink, as though feverish, and he struggled to meet Lance’s gaze, even as he swiped the colour with his thumb. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine,” Keith repeated, too quickly. “I, uh. Thanks.”

Lance settled back on his ankles, ignoring the ache. “No problem. Dumbass.”

“I - what?”

“Why did you take your helmet off?” Lance demanded. He was shaking now as the nerves left him, so he didn’t try folding his arms. “Shiro literally said ‘ _never remove your helmet on a mission’_ and you just -”

“We were done with the mission!”

“Getting away is part of the mission, Keith!”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Slav called, jerking their focus in his direction. They found him near the ceiling; the many-limbed engineer hadn’t had time to buckle in, so ended up strung through dangling cables like bunting, tail valiantly wrapped around a pipe to keep him up. It was slipping. “- but I could use some assistance back here.”

“Right, on it,” Lance snapped, teeth gritted. He glared once more at the gaping, flushed Keith before picking his way towards their passenger. It was difficult going, dented panels and strewn electricals making it an obstacle course. Slav’s tail flapped pathetically as Lance caught hold of a bunch of rubber cabling and began to work the alien loose. In the cockpit, he heard Keith unclasp his harness and start prodding at the controls. “Just how bad is it?” he asked, tugging one of Slav’s hands free.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Keith reported, and Lance couldn’t help but snort. Like _that_ wasn’t obvious. “ – but the life support systems and communications are fine. We’ll just have to wait for the others to fetch us.”

“And how long will that take?”

“Maybe four hours?”

Lance ducked as a dangling section of pipe fell away, clattering and rolling down the sloped floor. Most of Slav’s long torso was now free. “What about this planet? The scans were totally weird.”

“Uh…” more prodding, and one of the machines made a wobbly, melting sort of noise. “Hard to say. Most of this stuff is broken, and even the bits that look like they’re working can’t get a reading.”

“Let me see that,” Slav said, suddenly hauling himself free. Lance yelped as the engineer climbed down his back with his too-many-hands, wriggling his way around the carnage and into Keith’s space. The Red Paladin crammed himself back into the seat as Slav jabbed away at the panel.

“Fascinating,” he proclaimed. He turned to look at both of them, jowls wobbling with excitement under his beak. “It seems this planet is rich in a rare element with trans-dimensional properties,” he explained. “The storm seems to be a result of entropic forces colliding with energies from other dimensions – dimensions that may have difficult physical laws to our own. This is incredible.”

“So… it’s neat science?” Lance guessed, glancing briefly at Keith. He seemed just as nonplussed.

“No,” Slav chirped, delighted, “It’s very messy science. In fact, I suspect exposure to the storm would cause catastrophic neural overload and sanity loss.”

“You mean going outside will drive us mad?” Keith translated.

“In all probability. But perhaps I could…” humming to himself, Slav began hammering at the panel with the upper two pairs of hands while the others rummaged beneath it, pulling out wires and rearranging them. He seemed engrossed, and after a minute or two of flat, tuneless sound, Lance gave up waiting for an answer.

“Well, brilliant. This is just brilliant, _Keith_.”

“What did I do?” the other boy demanded, rounding on him with a glare.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Lance began, dripping sarcasm. “Crashed us on an apples-and-bananas planet, maybe?”

Keith’s eyebrows were folded down over his eyes, lavender-grey darkening to violet like they always did when he was mad. “I had no choice and you know it.”

Perhaps not, but heck if Lance wasn’t mad about it anyway. “Not then, but if you’d listened back on the Galra ship and gone _left_ instead of _right_ -”

“What, straight into a patrol?”

“We could have taken them!”

"Not without raising the alarm, we couldn’t!”

“Oh, you mean like _you_ did when you -”

“That was after we’d completed the mission!”

“ _Getting away is part of the mission, Keith!_ ”

“The two of you fight like a married couple,” Slav observed, voice muffled under the desk. Lance chose to ignore him, and if Keith heard he did the same.

“The _point_ ,” Lance pronounced, “is that if you’d actually listened, we might not be in this mess, okay?”

“If _I_ listened? What about you? Why did you try and shoot out that sentry?”

“I bullseyed that sentry!”

“Yeah, after I told you not to-”

There was a _phut_ of sparks, and a smell like burning plastic, tart and sharp. “Neither of you listen,” Slav muttered.

“You weren’t in charge of the mission, Keith!” Lance retorted, bristling. “We were supposed to work together, but you -”

Keith’s mouth fell open in shock before twisting into something angry and... and hurt? “Together?” he demanded, grimace making his voice bitter. “Lance, you’ve been refusing to work with me from the start. I thought it was getting better, but today...” he hiked his shoulders higher. “Let’s face it, you’ve had a problem with me since day one. Just what did I even do?”

“I didn’t -” Keith’s glower was hot and sharp as tears, a needle into the back of Lance's already throbbing neck. “Whatever. I’m just saying it’s at least _partly_ your fault we’re stuck here for hours.”

“In approximately ninety-five percent of realities in which this event occurs -” Slav popped up from the panel between them with a scorch mark on his beak, “- the fault is with both of you for failing to support one another.”

Lance slid his eyes from Keith’s, trying to draw regular breaths past the lump in his throat. He thought he heard Keith sigh before asking:

“And the other five percent?”

“In those it was mostly the Snikkerlax.”

“What’s a -”

“Who cares?” Lance interrupted. Then he caught Keith’s expression again. He rubbed at his nape, short hairs curling round his gloves. “Let’s just... let’s just wait for the others.” He wormed his way around the alien engineer to settle back into his seat. Slav’s tail swayed in the air while he rummaged under the console again, oddly hypnotic. He’d rather look at that than Keith right now, anyway.

But then Slav started up a steady stream of commentary, punctuated by metallic noises, beeps and crack. Occasional bits of circuitry were flung into the cockpit.

“All this bickering really undermines your efficiency. Where’s the external sensor lead? I’m sure Shiro has spoken to you about it, but perhaps this will – who puts a heat sink there? Shoddy workmanship, ridiculous. Maybe seeing some of this for yourselves will improve the situation, I mean really -” Slav’s head re-emerged, one set of arms full of trailing wires and scavenged machinery, “- seeing you now it’s hard to believe you are successful romantic partners in a high proportion of realities.”

Keith choked.

Lance felt like the chair was disintegrating beneath him, clutching at it as though he expected grains to escape through his fingers. “We’re... we’re what?”

“Romantic partners,” Slav repeated, clasping all his free pairs of hands and leaning back on his tail, eyes wistfully cast to the sky. “Lovers. Boyfriends, husbands – it really depends on the reality.”

Keith was now bent in half, coughing into his hands. Lance was pretty sure he could feel his own eyes bulging. “You’re saying we’re together?! Like, _together_ together?!”

“Me and Lance,” Keith breathed, faint.

“No way,” Lance said, sharply. He pinned his stare on the alien engineer, who seemed to frown. “There’s no way that’s true.”

“It most certainly is,” Slav retorted, offended. “In fact, the two of you are unusually probable, more so than many others. But if you don’t believe me, I can show you.” He tipped his head at the viewscreen.

“What?” Keith gasped.

“Well, I can’t show you other realities,” Slav amended. “But thanks to this planet’s trans-dimensional properties and the energies of this storm, I can show you glimpses into alternate dimensions. By my calculations, there should be plenty in which the two of you are predetermined lovers, preternaturally linked so it is evident.”

“That made even less sense than the first thing,” Lance exclaimed. Slav rolled his eyes.

“It means the two of you are destined to be together in that dimension, and there is some sort of sign to say so.”

“Destined...?” Lance swallowed around his dry mouth. “Soulmates? You’re talking about soulmates.”

“I believe that’s the common terminology."

He couldn’t help it, his eyes travelled to the wide viewscreen before them, curiosity making his pulse quick.

He could admit it, he was curious.

“And you can show us?”

“Absolutely,” Slav turned back to the console, leaning across it so his multitude of fingers could fly across the keys. Static crawled across the corners of the screen.

“Wait,” said Keith. Lance jumped, pulled to look before he could stop himself. If Keith was flushed before, he was positively beetroot now; but determined. He reached out and caught one of Slav’s elbows. “This isn’t going to change anything, is it?”

Slav frowned, jowls wobbling.

“I mean,” Keith glanced at Lance, slightly wild around the eyes, “showing us isn’t going to change this reality, right? It won’t - I dunno – mess with the timeline or something?”

“This is a non-determinist dimension.”

“I know, but -” another glance his way, and he could feel his face heating up to match Keith’s. “It’s not going to influence the likely outcome, is it? You’re sure?”

Slav blinked. “I certainly hope it influences you to work together better, or it defeats the object. Now -”

Lance yelped when Slav pressed a button, and the screen buzzed into white sparks. With one last look at Keith – fearful, curious, cripplingly embarrassed – he turned to the other life being played out before his eyes.


	2. in my every thought

Keith let his head drop forward onto the desk, relishing in the feeling of the cool wood against his forehead and trying not to let the heaviness of his eyelids overcome him. Staying up until the crack of dawn to finish his book had been a mistake; but further than that, forgetting that Wednesdays were the unholy day of early morning class had been the bigger mistake of the two. Hindsight was a bitch. 

Altogether the morning was shaping up to be rather shit. He had barely managed to tug himself out of bed, only trudging around his apartment on the promise of coffee and the half-hearted care about not failing his course. His limbs had been heavy and uncoordinated as though the puppeteer who usually pulled his strings was drunk and sloppy, his hands reaching for essential items and feet taking him from point A to point B on instinct and practise alone. 

The coffee shop had been closed. Keith had said some choice words. The elderly lady walking past had stared at him disappointedly and he still felt the recoil from upsetting her as he sat waiting for the lecture to begin. (Keith was choosing to ignore the fact that the coffee shop being closed was his fault, he went to the wrong coffee shop, the one with the nice yellow walls and sunflowers on the take away cups didn’t open until 8:30). So Keith hadn’t had coffee because after his trek to the wrong coffee shop and his offending of a random elderly lady he hadn’t had the time. 

More people entered the room and the vaguely socially adept part of Keith’s brain reminded him to sit up properly. The muscles in his body took a few moments to reboot before dragging him into a sitting position, eyes glazed and unfocused. A girl glanced at him nervously as she shuffled past and he offered himself ten seconds of concern as to just _how_ shit he must look before his brain shut down again. 

He scratched self-consciously at his wrist. Yet another reason to add to the long list of ‘Why This Morning Sucked’ was the glaringly obvious lack of gloves covering Keith’s hands right about now. He knew exactly where they were, in his mind’s eye he could see them sitting on his desk where he had discarded them absentmindedly last night, yet in his haze he had forgotten to slip them over his hands this morning. 

His words. Keith had a lot of emotions around his words, and most of them could be summed up as embarrassed. As far as a first thought went Keith supposed he shouldn’t be too upset, he certainly knew of soulmates who had it far worse - Adam’s first thought upon seeing Shiro was “wow what an idiot”, which in all honesty suited them rather excellently - but at least his words could be considered romantic… if you squinted hard enough. 

_“No one with a mullet should be allowed to be that hot. ”_

It was the mullet that got Keith every time. It was the mullet that made him wear fingerless gloves every day to hide the looping blue words inscribed on his wrist. It was the mullet that encouraged Keith to tie his hair in a short stubby ponytail every day to maintain the fact that no, he did not have a mullet. 

Except today that was, because this morning was a shit morning. Keith’s hair tie had snapped as he was walking out the door and he didn’t have the time to grab another one should he still want coffee - he scowled at the irony of that fact. He absentmindedly tugged at the split ends fanning around his ears, and contemplated when in his schedule he could fit in a hair appointment. He pulled the end down so the wave was fully straightened and let it bounce back up, eyes completely glazed over. Maybe he could fit in an appointment before visiting Shiro on Saturday? He was mulling over the idea when a small cough drew him out of his reverie. 

Keith turned his head slowly, cursing the sluggish way his body seemed to respond to him. The boy standing over him with crossed arms and a raised eyebrow was tall and lanky, from the awkward angle Keith was craning his neck he seemed to tower over him, although Keith would guess they would only be an inch or two apart if he were to stand. Tanned skin met blue tank top seamlessly and as douchey as the guy seemed to dress Keith couldn’t deny how well the blue complimented his eyes.

His mind was blissfully blank as he stared up at the boy for all of three seconds. 

There was something monumental about those three seconds it took for his brain to catch up to his eyes. He would one day remember the short pocket of time he had before the gay part of his brain reared its head, the part of him that was so much stronger than the logical part. 

One… two… three… 

_Oh shit he’s fucking gorgeous._

It took another three seconds to remember how to form words. The boy stared at him pointedly as Keith’s mouth opened and closed and yet nothing but a squeak left his lips. 

“You’re kinda in the way there buddy,” the boy huffed after a long silence, seemingly frustrated with Keith’s awkward inability to speak. 

Keith’s body caught up to the words before his brain, scrambling to move his feet so unfairly-hot-boy could get through. His eyes trailed along the sharp line of his jaw, the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, the illegal way his eyes seemed to sparkle in the artificial lighting of the lecture hall. 

Fingers snapped in front of Keith’s eyes, drawing him out of his thoughts with a jolt. Hot boy was staring back at him with narrowed eyes, “Have I got something on my face?” 

Keith blinked back in confusion, the haze of sleep deprivation still heavy like smog in his brain. “Huh?” He responded eloquently. Hot boy raised an eyebrow, the quirk of his brow showing how very unamused he was by Keith’s response. 

“You’re staring at me.” 

The questioning rise of his voice sent heat rushing into Keith’s cheeks and his still exhausted mouth ran wild before he could think it through. “You’re just very pretty.” 

The boy’s mouth dropped open, hanging on its hinges as he stared at Keith as openly as Keith had been staring at him only moments earlier. He winced in preparation for the inevitable onslaught of horror that would no doubt escape the boy when instead his mouth snapped shut. 

“O-oh,” the boy stammered, his cheeks darkening as he scrambled into the seat beside Keith and busied himself with unpacking his bag. 

Keith didn’t move until the boy looked at him again, as though he needed the non-verbal permission to continue existing in a functioning way. “I’m Lance,” he said softly, slipping a piece of paper into Keith’s hand with an awkward smile and still flushed cheeks. 

Keith stammered to respond and ended up simply shouting, “Keith!” at Lance who seemed incredibly amused by this turn of events. 

“Okay Keith,” he chuckled, “Call me sometime?” 

The phone number written onto the paper held tightly in Keith’s grip seemed to burn and leave an imprint on his palm. He nodded numbly, still distracted by the sparkle of Lance’s eyes. 

Lance nodded stiffly in response and sat back in his seat. 

~-~-~

It turned out that despite being painfully attractive - Keith’s pounding heart could attest to the fact - Lance was an idiot. He was loud, when he told stories he seemed to take up the entire café, and he never hesitated to poke fun at Keith. Keith certainly wasn’t one to hold back, he dished out as much as he received, but altogether his company was comfortable. They grew closer as the weeks drew by, for all his annoying teasing and his frustratingly bad jokes, Lance was simply _easy_ to be around. 

They were having coffee, because that was something they did recently. When Lance had first asked Keith to get coffee with him Keith had called Shiro. It felt monumental. 

  
  


_“I made a friend,” Keith had said, pulling at the cuff of his glove._

_“You made a friend,” Shiro repeated, Keith had pretended he couldn’t hear the laughter leaking into his words._

_“Yes, Lance is my new friend,” Keith said as though that detail made his phone call to Shiro less nonsensical._

_Shiro didn’t bother to hide his huff of laughter. “Your friendship status with Lance has changed since we last discussed him because?”_

_“He asked me to coffee,” Keith said as though that explained everything, and in a way it kind of did._

_“Ah,” Shiro said because he understood Keith like that. There was a pause and then Shiro said, “I’m proud of you,” he was equal parts teasing and genuine and it had made Keith smile._

  
  


Lance was one of the few people - excluding Adam and Shiro - who not only understood Keith’s humour but found him genuinely funny. He tried to hide it, claiming Keith was decidedly not funny, but Keith knew the truth. Sometimes he failed to hide his amusement, like this moment, with Lance laughing so hard that he choked on his coffee and a few drips escaped his nose. Keith grinned proudly watching as Lance squeaked in shock and tried to dab away the evidence with a spare napkin. 

“Shut up,” Lance attempted to hiss as he covered his still laughing mouth with the napkin and tried to hide his flushed, embarrassed cheeks. 

Keith allowed himself to laugh at Lance’s expense, throwing his head back and giggling at the mental image of coffee exploding from his nose. He glanced at Lance who was finally getting his laughter under control enough to shoot a disgruntled glare at Keith and had the fleeting thought of wanting to kiss the embarrassed flush of Lance’s cheeks - and then his mind snagged on that thought, and Keith thought: _Oh. This is more than attraction now._

He contemplated the round slope of Lance’s jaw, the shine of his eyes, the soft plumpness of his lips; he almost said “ _I want to kiss you until you can’t breathe_ ” and so instead he said, “You’ve got nose coffee on your chin, idiot.” 

“Why don’t you shut up you... you...” Lance hissed dabbing at his chin furiously. “... you mullet-wearing jerk!” He finally landed on an insult. 

Keith let out another sharp bark of laughter. “Where the hell did that come from?” 

“Your hair, it’s a mullet,” Lance said with a finality that did not allow for arguing - Keith argued anyway. 

“It is _not_.” 

“It is _too_.” 

Keith scowled. “It’s not a mullet.” 

“Dude your little ponytail can’t fool me, I know a mullet when I see one,” Lance propped his chin on his hand with a smirk that made Keith want to silence him with his own mouth, he swallowed the urge down. 

“You’ve never even seen my hair down,” Keith grumbled, already realising he wouldn’t be changing Lance’s mind. 

Lance shook his head, his lips smirking over the brim of his coffee mug. “Your hair was down the day I met you, I noticed your mullet the second I saw you.” 

Keith scowled some more, clutching his stubby ponytail protectively as though it would change Lances words. It took thirty seconds for the realisation to hit, and for the second time in less than five minutes Keith thought to himself: _Oh._

“Lance,” Keith said softly, his tone was enough to make Lance look up sharply in order to stare at Keith with those blue eyes that could rival the ocean. “You know what soul marks are?” 

Lance blinked. Once. Twice. Then, “What kind of weird-arse question is that?” He stared at Keith incredulously, and in hindsight that was perhaps the worst way he could have begun this conversation. Whilst Keith fumbled for a reply, Lance forged ahead. “As if I would be like, _huh come to think of it no! I’ve never heard of a soul mark before! In fact! I’ve never even looked at my own arm in all my 20 years of living_ ,” Lance giggled a little at his terrible interpretation of his own voice and Keith couldn’t help but smile a little himself. 

“I meant,” Keith huffed, beginning the conversation again to hopefully more success. He stumbled over his words for a few moments and Lance waited patiently for his explanation. “I’ve always wanted to meet my soulmate,” Keith eventually settled on as a good place to begin. Lance nodded, encouraging him to continue and he did with a shuddering breath, “I knew he would be kind, and definitely an idiot but I was okay with that because I’ve always been a bit of an idiot,” Keith broke off with a laugh and Lance looked no less confused. 

“Not gonna lie, you’re acting weirder than normal, and for you, that’s an achievement,” Lance said but waved his hand for Keith to continue. 

“I don’t show people my soul mark... ever,” Keith admitted, running his fingertips over the worn material of his gloves thoughtfully. “It’s pretty common not to show people, I guess,” he continued, gesturing to Lance’s watch sitting over his own mark and Lance nodded in agreement, “But I’ve never shown anyone, Shiro’s the only person who has ever seen it.” 

Lance’s eyes widened in appreciative understanding at that—whilst it was common to hide a soul mark in public, Keith didn’t doubt that Lance had his mark exposed at home as most did. Keith was always shy about it, preferring to keep it under the protection of gloves rather than just in the open. 

“I’m gonna show you now,” Keith finished, pulling at the velcro fastening of his right glove.

Lance gaped at him in confusion, lips parted and eyebrows furrowed. He suddenly scrambled into action, hands flying over Keith’s so his warm palms were sitting against the bare skin of Keith’s fingertips. 

“You don’t have to show me, it’s okay to keep it private if you want to,” Lance assured him. Keith flipped his hand so they were palm to palm and revelled in the way Lance’s cheeks darkened slightly. 

“I promise, I want to show you.” 

“Oh,” Lance mumbled, eyes trained on their linked hands, distracted. 

Keith pulled his hands away once again so he could tug his glove off the rest of the way, revealing the pale skin of his wrist with words he knew all too well. “Because,” he mused, running the pad of his thumb over the words before upturning his wrist to show Lance, “I think you might be the idiot who put it there.” 

_‘No one with a mullet should be allowed to be that hot.’_

There was a pause that seemed to stretch for hours and mere seconds simultaneously, where Lance simply stared at the words inscribed on Keith’s wrist. 

“Holy fucking shit,” Lance finally broke the silence with his hushed whisper, they were still for a moment longer before Lance was in frantic motion. 

Keith watched as he fumbled for the clasp of his watch and pulled it off with fingers that fluttered like leaves in the wind. He held out his wrist for Keith to read, and the words were horrifying and beautiful _._

_“Oh shit he’s fucking gorgeous.”_

“Fucking hell,” Keith said, the words fell out airily and full of disbelieving laughter. 

“Fucking hell indeed,” Lance agreed, his fingers lightly tracing the words on Keith’s wrist and consequently sending shivers down Keith’s spine. The joy became too much, filling Keith’s lungs like a balloon slowly inflating with air and suddenly, he was laughing. Delighted and happy and laughing, and then Lance was laughing too, and they were both laughing until their ribs were complaining and then they laughed some more. 

When their laughter finally trickled out into breathy gasps, Lance turned to Keith with a smirk and asked, “So, do you really think I’m gorgeous?” 

Keith pulled his chair closer to Lance’s and instead of answering said, “I’m going to kiss you now.” 

He wished he could capture the expression that graced Lance’s face in that moment for the rest of his life, but had to settle for savouring the shake of Lance’s breath and the soft way he practically exhaled, “Yeah okay, that—that sounds really, really good,” in the moment before Keith pressed their lips together. 

They met gently, a soft introduction of lips on lips and Lance’s breath mingling with Keith’s own. Keith’s heart hummed in his chest, his fingers danced against Lance’s wrist and he sighed happily into the kiss. The press of their lips sewed the words ‘soulmate’ and ‘Lance’ seamlessly together until Keith was unsure he had ever seen them as two separate words. 

Lance pulled away first, smiling dopily. “You definitely think I’m hot,” he giggled. 

Keith shrugged and easily retorted, “Technically you think I’m hot too.” 

“We’re talking about me right now.” 

“Aren’t we always.” 

“Shut up.” 

“Sure,” Keith grinned and leaned in to kiss Lance again, and again, and again.

.o0o.

They were quiet for a few moments after the screen dissolved into white static. Then Slav sniffed loudly, wiping away tears, and Keith’s head sunk into his hands, breath loud in the cockpit. Lance thought he recognised one of the Garrison’s breathing exercises.

“Hey. _Do_ you think I’m hot?” he asked, voice a little cracked, like old paint.

Keith’s head shot up, eyes wide. “We’ve just watched ourselves making out in public for ten minutes and _that’s_ what you’re fixated on?!”

“We weren’t full-on making out though,” Lance retorted, defensiveness making his tone too squeaky. “Making out would be more….” You know what; no, he wasn’t going to finish that thought. “And you’re not answering the question.”

Keith’s face did a strange thing where he seemed to go pale and redder all at once, unable to tear his eyes away.

“Holy Crow. Holy Crow, you do; you think I’m hot.”

Keith hid his strawberries-and-cream complexion with his palms and a strangled sound. “Pretty sure I’m gay in every dimension, Lance.” Suddenly he looked up to glare at Slav. “If I’m not, don’t tell me. I don’t wanna know.”

Slav mercifully remained silent, reaching for the panel once more.

“Huh. So it’s the same?” Lance mused, carefully not looking anymore so they could both recover.

“Is it?” Keith muttered. “I mean… if you…”

Oh. Damn. He scratched his neck. “Well, yeah. You wouldn’t be half as annoying if you were good at everything and _ugly_ , you know?”

He could just picture Keith’s frown; the creases besides his nose. “You find me more annoying because you think I’m… and good at…” he trailed off, Lance considered a glance but decided the risk was too great. “Forget it, I give up.”

“Give up?” Slav asked, craning his head round to look at the Red Paladin. “Don’t you want to see some more?”

“No,” said Keith, exactly when Lance said ‘yes’.

“Really?” Lance demanded, incredulous. “You don’t?”

The other boy shifted in his seat, rolling shoulders against the cushions. He’d been filling out. “It’s not that I… I thought _you_ wouldn’t.” He waited, but all Lance could think to do was raise an eyebrow at the violet gaze. “Okay,” Keith said then, squaring himself. “Okay, we can watch another one. Just… just don’t regret it, okay?”

“What are you -”

“Here we go,” said Slav, hitting another button. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya guys! this chapter was written by me (tjmcharg/frecklyylance) and it was really fun to write! 
> 
> i hope these idiots’ dumbassery can bring a smile to your face sara <3 you’ve made my life so much brighter and your kindness and love have improved not only my life but the lives of everyone around you. you’re a wonderful person.


	3. Written in the Scars

Lance holds his jaw gingerly up with his fingers, tilting his head to see the way the colors reflect in the light of the pool. He has his fair share of flowers - small, baby dahlias decorating his arms and legs and fingers, like little red dots to remind him that they’re out there - his soulmate. He...has his guesses. Who it is, that is. But y’know, things have been so hectic - and there was that time he got _blown up_ and his number one suspect never said anything so…

It’s not looking good for Lancey Lance.

There’s this large, blood red dahlia decorating the top of his shoulder, a pretty memorable one on his bicep, and now - _now_ , there’s a cluster of them; shifting with his tan skin like a wall of fire curling up his neck, through his jaw and stopping with the edge of a petal in the middle of his cheek. Lance hasn’t - hasn’t _seen_ Keith in a couple months, not since he left them and fucked off with the Blades to run around in a space ninja costume. And okay, he’s not _complaining,_ it _is_ a nice suit, sue him - but.

But.

Lance is starting to wonder if he’s alone in this, or if Keith has someone else’s flowers on his arms; if his back is an empty canvas of smooth, pale skin. He’s due back today and, if he’s being honest, Lance isn’t looking forward to the awkward “Hey, I have your flowers but you don’t have mine” conversation. It’s just not something he wants to do - nope, not even a little bit, _nada._ And like, here’s the thing: if Keith isn’t his soulmate, it’s gonna be pretty freakin’ awkward. He has these giant shifting flowers _on his face_ , and that’s not exactly going away!

A big ass neon sign that says “hey! Your soulmate is right here, buddy!”

And Lance was a little bit of a mess when it happened - when he noticed, that is. There’s no searing pain or some flash of light, they just freakin’ show up and wait around for you to see them, like stealthy little ghost flowers, ready to scare the life out of you when you wake up at the ass-crack of space dawn for training. Lance had screeched like a banshee before he realized it was flowers and not _actually_ a gaping wound in his face, before sprinting for his tablet. 

Keith had sent ahead a message, saying he’d be pulling in with the real Shiro around evening Castle time. Because of course he had. And - he was alive, for one, and two… two, Lance couldn’t just put it off. He couldn’t find some magical space concealer so Keith wouldn’t know, couldn’t dunk his face in a vat of food goo and hope he wouldn’t notice. 

Which lead him here: the pool. 

The one place he has left to relax, the last speck of home he can reach in this sea of stars meandering by. And there’s only ten minutes until Keith sets down in the hangar bay, but Lance...still isn’t ready to face him. He _knows_ the flowers on his shoulder are from Keith’s Blade trials, but - if Keith took off his shirt, would there be a swathe of roses on his back? Maybe some violets? What kind of flowers would he have from Lance - what would it look like; to see proof that someone’s soul was reaching for his?

Lance has never felt like _enough_ , and this whole soulmate debacle is the final nail in the damn coffin.

He lays back, staring up at the stars through the ceiling he was able to make transparent, and slowly swirls his feet through the water. Lance has his pants rolled up to past his knees, the Castle replicator _nearly_ getting the fabric of jeans right. They’re just a little stretchier than normal, something about making every set of clothing battle ready and set to specific standards and it was _fascinating_ but Lance is too tired to think back over the notes he took. He just wants to listen to the water and maybe evaporate into the stars over his head.

There’s a soft _whoosh_ as the door opens, and he barely flicks an eye over to the entrance before _yep, that’s Keith,_ and he goes back to staring into the deep blue black of space. 

“ _Lance_ I’ve been - how’d you get the ceiling to do that?”

That’s the first thing Keith says to him after five months apart. 

It’s fine, it doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t feel like he’s tearing at the seams at all, he’s _fine._ “Allura, uh, taught me some Altean. So I’d know how to use the controls, y’know? There’s like a mood light setting or whatever for the pool.”

“Cool. Could you, um, could you sit up? I wanted to talk to you about -“

Lance sighs, and heaves himself into a sitting position. He looks down at his feet through the water, ignoring his reflection in the small ripples around his legs. “Listen, man. We don’t have to do this. I get it, I do, and I’d rather you just rip the bandaid off if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t - well, Shiro said he wanted to see you, to ‘apologize for his actions’, something about an astral plane? He was pretty vague but it seemed important.” Lance still can’t look at him. He can see his boots and the edges of his legs in his peripheral vision, and that’s almost enough to make his mouth go dry.

Lance’s fingers dig into the lip of the pool and he coughs, trying to clear the lump that’s formed in his throat. “I’ll - hm - I’ll be there in a tick, Keith.” He laughs wryly; “if that’s it, I’d like to be alo-“

,

“That’s - that’s not it. There’s - will you look at me? I...Lance, there’s something I need to know. Will you - will you look at me? Please?”

Lance’s knuckles turn white, and his throat closes up. 

He doesn’t look.

Keith sighs and starts unbuckling his boots, peeling his socks off quickly before rolling up the film of his suit. He slides over to where Lance is sitting, still staring out across the water to avoid his gaze. Their hands are almost brushing, and the heat from his body has Lance melting, the feeling of _oh god I’ve missed you_ and _oh shit oh quiznack oh jeez does he know how close we are_ warring in his chest, simultaneously freezing and melting his muscles. 

“Is Shiro okay?” Is the question that comes out of Lance’s mouth, and he’s _so_ thankful they got him back, but he’s reaching blindly for _anything_ that will save him from this rejection. 

“Yeah, he said his memories are kind of shaky but it gets clearer the further back he goes. I guess he remembers everything that happened up until he got booted up into murder mode and tried to kill me.”

Lance whips his head around and he can _feel_ something pull but - “holy _shit_ Keith are you okay? I-I mean, of course you’re not, your brother tried to kill you, but-“

He stops, but Keith is just staring and staring and _staring_ , looking like he just got the wind knocked out of him. “Keith? Buddy? You okay?”

But he _forgot_ that there are vibrant red dahlias ripping up the skin of his neck and cheek. In his haste to take in and look over _Keith_ Lance forgot that he could do the same to _him_ , and now - he gets one good eyeful of Keith, and feels his muscles tense to jump. Up or into the water, whatever the hell gets him out of here. 

“Don’t you dare, Lance.”

“Idon’tknowwhatyou’retalkingabout!” he halfway yells before trying to launch himself into the pool, his right hand coming up to smack over the flowers on his face. 

Keith catches him. 

He’s sure there’s a metaphor in there somewhere.

A long, well muscled arm is wrapped around his middle, yanking him back onto the lip of the pool. “We need to talk, Lance.”

“Yeah, about how Shiro tried to kill you!”

“That’s the least of your worries,” he growls. 

Lance laughs, and it’s _not_ high pitched and panicked. It’s _not._ “It’s really not! I mean, you’ve got that giant scar and man have you been hitting the Ovaltine while you were gone? _No one_ grows that much in five months!”

“Oval- Lance we don’t have chocolate milk in space!”

“None that _you’ve_ had, anyway.”

Keith sighs and yanks him closer, his breath ghosting against Lance’s hair. If he turns his head, their noses will be pressed together. “Lance...can I see?”

“See what?” He says, and this is it: his last ditch effort to get the hell out of this conversation.

“ _Lance.”_

_I’d rather drown myself in the pool,_ he thinks. 

But he turns his head anyway, and finally _looks_ at Keith. Soft, if impatient, indigo eyes stare back at him, dark hair framing his face and reaching his collarbones. The top armor of his Marmora suit is missing, leaving him in just his under suit and _Christ_ has he decided to fill it out. _How many Clif bars does it take to get to the center of…_

Keith touches the side of his face, the flowers moving in Lance’s peripheral, the light coming out of them illuminating his fingertips. His eyes are wide and Lance just watches him, taking in the way his face softens and relaxes as a smile pulls up one half of his mouth. “You know...I didn’t even realize I had flowers on my back. It wasn’t even _near_ the top of my list and - and you said you didn’t remember, so-“

“I lied.” Lance finds his mouth moving on it’s own, and holy quiznack he can’t handle this it’s not happening it’s _not;_ because Keith just - he said he has flowers on his back and Lance will _not_ get his hopes up, no matter what’s being implied. “I mean at the time it didn’t seem like - y’know? I wasn’t really ready to face it all and I didn’t know how you felt. So I just kind of…lied?”

Keith looks like he’s been hit over the head until he growls an “I knew it”, bringing his hands up to cup Lance’s face. His movements are fast, jerky, but his grip is soft, _gentle,_ like he’s holding something important. 

“Lance,” he says, his nose gently rubbing against Lance’s, “I’m going to kill you.”

“Can you kiss me instead?” Lance asks, and _god_ he wants it, wants to close those last few inches, wants to feel the heat of Keith’s mouth on his. 

“Yeah,” Keith says, smirking, “but only because you asked so nicely.” 

And finally, _finally,_ soft, full lips are meeting his, and Lance doesn’t know what to do. For all the times he’s kissed and been kissed, nothing compares to the delicate, _roaring_ inferno burning into his chest, making its home there. His eyes are closed, but he’s still blinded against the red light pouring from his flowers - a declaration and promise all in one. 

Keith’s mouth is everything he thought it would be, and yet - and _yet_ , it’s so much more. He is insistent, and impatient, and hot, all the things that Lance would expect. But he’s also gentle and soft, his hands pulling Lance in like the waves of home, caressing and light. There’s a deceptive kind of depth there, one he knows he could lose himself in; like a riptide he doesn’t want to escape. He could swim and fight and make his way back to shore, sinking his feelings and his love of the water-

But he never really could stay away, and he’s done enough fighting to last a lifetime. And again, he doesn’t want to. 

Lance wants to stay right here, in this very spot, for the rest of his damn life. 

So he lets the tide carry him out, stokes the flames in his chest, and sinks his hands into Keith’s hair as he parts his lips, tangling their tongues together. They meet in the middle, the perfect push and pull, as they are finally, _finally,_ whole. He barely notices when Keith starts to pull back, a chuckle ghosting over his lips before he feels one final, small peck there. 

“I wasn’t going to ask but uh,” Keith says, reaching to unzip the top of his suit, “do you have any idea why these ones are black?”

And there, among small, blue flowers from old childhood wounds, is a lightning streak of black. It curves up his bicep and straight to his heart, carving through pale skin like ink - like someone had taken forget-me-nots and turned them into something else, something darker. He doesn’t even have time to admire the view before he’s plunged into icy panic.

_From that time I died,_ his mind whispers. 

“Oh quiznack,” is what his mouth says instead.

  
.o0o.

Lance didn’t realise he was touching his cheek until the last of the image phased out into white sparks, edges blurring. He pulled his fingertips away; flinching at the loss of gentle warmth. He was never going to look at flowers the same way again, for sure. If he ever got to see proper Earth flowers again.

Ah. Fresh heat prickled at the corners of his eyes.

“Lance?”

Keith; quiet and awkward. Lance sniffed, pulling himself up in his chair, turning his face away from the searching look of Slav and Keith’s softer one.

“Yeah? What’s up buddy?”

His acting was lousy; the strain in his voice making his feelings all the fiercer; setting his teeth so his chin couldn’t wobble. Keith’s mouth twitched, but a few aborted movements later he too looked away; staring at the crumpled surfaces of the shuttle instead.

“… knew you’d regret it,” he muttered, accusation overlaid with something else.

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s weird isn’t it?” Keith demanded, head swinging back with a practicing. “It’s freaking you out, seeing yourself acting like that. With me.”

Lance shook his head, fidgeting in a chair he was resigned to never feel comfortable in. Especially not now. “That’s – that’s not it, Keith.”

“Right. Yeah.”

He sighed, felt it shake too much in his chest and swallowed it down along with a helping of his pride. Maybe it was the comedown after the crash, but he didn’t have the energy for it right now. “I’m homesick, okay?”

He knew Keith had reacted; had gone stiff and awkward perhaps, maybe disappointed; disdainful. He tried not to care.

“It was just… seeing the flowers. Earth flowers, not alien ones. Sometimes I’m okay, but then something small just reminds me and brings it all back… it’s stupid.”

Blinking too fast, Lance jumped when he felt a small hand on his leg. It was one of Slav’s; beady eyes creased with understanding.

“I understand that very well,” he said, and Lance knew he did; he could see it. How long since any of them had been home?

“I, uh. Sorry.” Keith offered. His own hands had balled up, knuckles pressed into the armour on his thighs. “I knew you missed Earth – I guess I never realised how much. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Lance replied, surprised to find it was true. He missed Earth, and that was okay. And Keith wasn’t looking at him like he was weak or pathetic or useless for doing it, and that was better. Maybe – “- you get it too, right? Homesick?”

The knuckles slipped an inch or two, soundless and frictionless against the hi-tech ceramic plates. “Ye-yeah,” he admitted at last, hesitant. “A bit. It’s not that bad.”

“Seriously?” he managed to summon a laugh; more sorrow than joy in it, but humour just the same. “Geez, dude. You have to beat me at the feelings thing too?”

“I’m not!” Keith retorted, quick. “I just… I had Dad’s grave. My shack and my bike. That’s it. Everything else I care about – it’s in space. I found things to care about in space.” He glanced over, chewed at his tongue in the face of Lance’s open mouth. “You left so much behind on Earth. Siblings, your Mom, the beach. A nice house in Cuba somewhere. Friends and – and crushes and stuff,” he rushed, stealing a look just as fast. “Flowers. Stuff to miss.” He turned back, and Lance seized a breath when Keith smiled, or tried: lopsided and hesitant but definitely a smile, eyes turning slightly crescent-shaped. “Maybe I’d get homesick if I saw a cactus.”

“Wha -?” Lance snorted. Then he laughed. Laughed until his battered ribs and bruised shoulders hurt, and Keith’s smile spread wide enough to lift his flushed cheeks and turn his eyes into proper half-moons. “Mullet boy makes a joke? Call the others; this is a historic event that should be remembered.”

“Oh yeah?” said Keith, eyes sparking, lips curving into a smirk. “Like, say, the bonding moment?”

He froze. “Uh.”

Keith leaned over, face still lit up like a neon sign with a ticklish smirk. “You said it, Lance. You remember. Liar.”

He poked his lip with his tongue, searching; “Hey, just because _that_ me remembered doesn’t necessarily mean that _me_ me remembers, you know? For all you know I could be completely clueless-”

“Oh trust me, I _know_ you’re clueless,” Keith quipped, grinning.

“Hey!”

“You’re getting on better already,” Slav observed warmly, looking from one to the other like he was watching a tennis match. _Love love_. Lance went red.

“Oh. Uh. I guess.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe a bit -”

“Wouldn’t take much.”

Slav rolled his eyes and threw up a pair of hands, dramatically. The effect was ruined because the rest were busy with the controls again. Lance coughed and stretched, fidgeting to take the pressure off the bits of him that were pummelled.

“Okay, but you gotta stop getting hurt so much dude,” he threw out, grinning. “Did you see what you did to my complexion back there? And after you finally admitted I’m hot, so - Keith?”

The other boy started, fringe swinging into his eyes. He brushed it away from his frown, wincing a little as hair peeled away from the sticky cut on his forehead. It was no longer bleeding, thankfully.

“Sorry. That injury… He said – _I_ said – that Shiro tried to kill me. Him.”

“Yeah.” His mouth felt drier as ocean-blue met anxious lavender. The click-clack of keys rattled like Lance’s nerves. Too many seconds passed. “That’s gotta be some messed-up alternate dimension stuff, man. There’s, like, no way that would ever happen. Not in a bazillion years.”

Keith’s shoulders unknotted before his eyes. “That – yeah. Yeah. Thanks, Lance.”

Another smile, but Lance’s heart didn’t settle like it should. If anything it got worse, until he could feel the pulse in the lining of his throat. “You’re welcome.”

“Alternate reality stuff,” Keith murmured. “Right, Slav?”

The engineer rounded on them. “Time for another dimension!” he declared, tail swiping across the screen as it once more pulsed with colour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sara! I hope you’re enjoying the story we’ve put together for you, you deserve all the best things in the world ♥️♥️♥️ 
> 
> Up next - a chapter from the-noble-idiot!
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


	4. I am my beloved

As Lance slowly rises from the dregs of sleep, he knows without opening his eyes that he is not in his own bed. There’s an odd distribution of weight that his own body does not have, a definition to muscles that he always worked for but could never quite get to stick around. A breath of relief exits his lungs, exhaled through his mouth and accompanied by a low groan that sounds foreign to his ears.

Lance had been worried that his soulmate wasn’t of age yet, but apparently that is not the case.

He knew it was coming, but no amount of soul counseling and the class his university offered on soul connections freshman year will prepare you for the nausea that apparently comes with switching bodies.

Lance inhales deeply to quell the roiling feeling in his stomach and his chest. One day. The first New Year’s Day after his twenty-second birthday. Twenty-four hours in his soulmate’s body, free to do whatever he wants. Somewhere in Southern California, his soulmate is waking up in Lance’s body. There would be no more chances after this. That’s fine. He can do this.

He peels his eyes open, blinking into the dark room illuminated only by the glow in the dark stars that speckle across his soulmate’s ceiling, like he never grew out of the obsession with space most children seem to have (though, to be fair, Lance didn’t grow out of it either). On a bedside table, an alarm clock that is not his reads January 1st, 2020, 9:03 pm.

Odd, for his soulmate to have been sleeping during the day. Maybe he works the night shift. Also seems like there’s some kind of time difference between them. Lance is too tired to do the math in his head, though.

Lance slowly sits up, feeling the weight of a body that is not his, cautiously testing motor functions as he throws the blanket off his body. He stands from the bed (taking a moment to admire his soulmate’s long legs, _damn_ ) and makes a beeline for the door, doing his best not to trip over anything as he adjusts to this shorter but slightly bulkier body. A quick glance down reveals a distinct lack of boobs. Cool cool cool, soulmate is a dude. 

The room is flooded with light as Lance flips the switch near the door. It’s a small room, from what he can see, with the bed pushed against a wall decorated with many foreign rock bands Lance recognizes, and other bands with Asian members that he does not. Across from the bed is a desk laden with books, knick knacks, and an open laptop, the screen dark. Clothes are strewn across the floor, mostly consisting of dark colors, spilling from an open wardrobe-like closet perched next to wall-to-ceiling curtains, through which Lance can see and hear the song of a city.

“Whoa,” Lance says, in a voice much deeper and muskier than his own, definitely masculine. 

On the bedside table next to the alarm clock he spots the ultimate prize: a phone. Lance lunges for it, the anticipation of seeing his soulmate’s face for the first time making his hands shake. The lock screen is a picture of a huge dog, tongue lolling as it happily looks up at the person behind the camera, presumably Lance’s soulmate, who apparently is a dog person. Lance doesn’t know the passcode, but the thumbprint scanner works just fine.

The home screen is the same image of the dog, and after a few swipes through the apps (music streaming services, a lot of motorcycle racing games, and automatically downloaded apps all stuffed into groups arranged in such a way that the dog’s face isn’t obscured. What a dork) to find the camera. His thumb hovers over the app, silently psyching himself up.

This is the person he is destined to be with, the person created especially for him. Lance had decided from a young age that he was going to love his soulmate no matter what they looked like or where they were from, but now that it’s finally happening he is struck with trepidation. Lance knows that he himself is a pretty average looking guy, despite his boasts that claim otherwise. His hair is cut strange, his face is angular, and his body isn’t really anything to gawk at… what if his soulmate is so incredibly hot, out of Lance’s league, and totally knows it?

Back in California, the owner of this body is waking up to a house of rapid-fire Spanish, likely being hounded by his siblings, his nieces, his mother. What if he looks in the mirror and doesn’t like what he sees? What if he decides it’s too much and doesn’t try to find Lance once this body switching is all over?

Lance bites the inside of his cheek, shaking himself out of the downward spiral he’s sliding down. No, he can’t think like that. Thinking about all the bad stuff when this is a literal once-in-a-lifetime chance to find the person he is destined to love? Dick move, Lance.

Before he can talk himself out of it again, Lance taps the camera app. The screen pops up with an image of the bedsheets; Lance takes a deep breath, and switches the lens to front view.

Oh fuck. His soulmate is _hot._

He’s Asian, Lance notices first, which explains some of the posters on the wall. Black hair, in a shaggy state of bed head, falls over his forehead, curls around his ears and down the back of his neck. It’s definitely a mullet, but judging by the state of his bedroom, Lance isn’t surprised. On this guy, it works. His eyes are a dark brownish-black, but in a flash of reflected brightness from the overhead light they seem to change to purple-ish blue. Thick eyebrows, high cheekbones, and a jaw sharp enough to cut paper. Lance smiles involuntarily, and his soulmate’s face mimics the action.

Dimples. He has _dimples_.

Lance whimpers, the sound odd in his soulmate’s voice. He drops his gaze to his throat and swallows thickly, watching, enraptured, as his adam’s apple bobs up and down. His eyes travel to the neckline of the black t-shirt his soulmate sleeps in. Unable to resist, Lance pulls up the hem and...

Oh boy. Lance is _fucked_. 

Something scratches at the door with a low whine. Lance jerks his head up from the phone screen, his heart, already racing from seeing his soulmate’s face for the first time, jumping into his throat in surprise. The door opens, and it’s the dog from his soulmate’s phone. Seeing its owner awake, it bounds into the room excitedly, shaking its tail and immediately attacking his face with licks.

“Aaah, stop it!” Lance laughs, and wow his soulmate’s laugh is beautiful. “Stop it, down! Down! _Dios mio_ , get _off!_ ”

The dog nudges at his arm, circling around the floor and nudges again. Lance has never had a pet before (besides his uncle’s cow Kaltenecker) but he thinks he recognizes this dance. “Hungry?”

The dog’s ears perk up at the word, and yep, must be food time. Lance puts down the phone and stands, following the dog out the door and into what looks to be a decently sized apartment. There’s another room that looks like a bedroom to his left, and a sort of vestibule with shoes lined up neatly facing what must be the front door.

To the right looks like a bathroom, and beyond that a hallway leading into the rest of the apartment. The dog is already heading that way, claws clicking on the hardwood flooring. Lance follows cautiously, not sure what to expect but ready to face it all the same.

「あ、おはよう、旭。」

A voice, noticeably not speaking Spanish or English, comes from somewhere to his left. Lance lets out a totally manly shriek in surprise, turning his head to acknowledge the other person his soulmate apparently lives with.

It’s a huge man, one of the biggest Lance has ever seen. His face is scarred but kind, stark white hair framing a jaw that could probably saw Lance in half if it so desired. Biceps bulge from beneath his sweater, though Lance notices that it’s only the left arm; the right sleeve is tied in a knot just below the man’s shoulder. He’s sitting in what seems to be a kitchenette, coffee cup in his hand and newspaper — written in _Japanese_ — laid flat on a small table in front of him.

Maybe… his soulmate is from San Francisco? There’s a huge Japanese population in that city, after all. Or maybe Hawaii?

At Lance’s shriek, the man’s eyebrows knit upward. 「旭、どうしたんか。」

“Uhm,” Lance shuffles through years of memories of watching Naruto with his nephews, struggles to remember anything that sounds remotely Japanese. “Uh, watashi—-”

「私？」

Judging by the confused tone in the man’s voice as he repeats the word, Lance guesses that it was not that one. Aren’t there multiple ways to refer to oneself? “Uh, boku wa, uh, _not_...”

The man’s eyes widen suddenly, his eyes flipping to the newspaper and back again. 「そうだ、今年旭が22歳になったんだ！」He stands, towering a good height over Lance. The scars, the missing arm, the foreign language, and now the height, Lance is thoroughly intimidated. No need for the shovel talk from this dude, nuh-uh. 「君、日本人？」

”Uhhh...”

「ではなさそうやな」The man tilts his head, as if trying to decide how this game of charades is going to go. Lance is getting tenser with every passing second, and he’s about to nope out when suddenly, “You are… Akira’s soulmate?”

At the sound of English, Lance relaxes. The words accented but understandable: _Akira’s soulmate. Akira._ “His name is Akira,” Lance says in his soulmate’s low timber _._

“His Japanese name,” the man corrects. “His English name is Keith.”

 _Keith._   
  
“Uh, where am I? He? We?”

The man smiles, and it’s such a genuinely happy smile that any intimidation Lance had felt originally dissipates immediately. “Osaka,” he says. “You can call me Shiro, and that’s my little brother you’re walking around in.”

“Oh, cool, Osaka. Like, Japan?”

“Like Japan.”

Sweet. Soulmate lives in Japan. Awesome. Lance is cool with this.

“ _Japan!”_ Lance practically screeches, hands coming up grip at long strands of thick black hair. “I’m from _California!”_

The man, Shiro, blinks. “You’re American...”

“Cuban-American,” Lance sighs, letting his hands fall down to his sides. “But yeah, I live in the States. And it’s super expensive to fly from America to Japan, plus time zones! And long-distance relationships aren’t really my speed, not to mention language barriers…”

“Keith speaks English,” Shiro says, and Lance cuts himself off with a snap of the jaw. “He spends vacations in Japan with me, and the school year at university in Chicago with his mother.”

Lance swallows. “Okay…” he says. Chicago is a lot more doable than Japan. “Yeah, okay, that’s… good. Good, yes. Uh.”

Shiro turns around to shuffle through the cabinets in the kitchenette, pulling out various ingredients and placing them on the counter. “Go sit on the sofa while I make something to eat,” he says kindly. “We can find a time for you two to meet when he gets back to America.”

The dog, which during this whole exchange has been standing expectantly next to its food bowl, gets impatient and nudges Lance’s arm again. “Uh, Shiro? Where is this dog’s food?”

Without taking his eyes off whatever he’s making, Shiro gestures with his foot toward a bottom cabinet kept shut with a padlock. “Code is two-eight-four. She learned how to open the door so now we have to lock it. Her name is Kosmo, by the way.”

Kosmo blinks innocently up at Lance as if to say, _who, me?_ Lance laughs and goes to unlock the door, dishing out a cupful of kibble into her bowl and locking it back when he finishes. Kosmo attacks the food with relish, and Lance leaves her to it to go sit on the couch in the adjoining living room.

Shiro joins him later with a bowl of what smells like miso soup and a plate of some kind of omelet-looking thing. He offers the food to Lance, who takes it eagerly. He doesn’t realize how hungry he is until he gets a whiff of that soup. It’s even better than the stuff he gets in Asian restaurants back home, and the omelet turns out to be filled with some kind of fried rice with ketchup (a combination he never thought would taste good but here he is).

“So, Mr. Soulmate -- I assume you are a boy, unless Akira was lying to me about liking boys, or the universe missed the memo -- tell me about yourself,” Shiro says once Lance pauses for breath. “I’d like to know whatever I can about my little brother’s soulmate.”

Lance swallows his latest bite, and licks his lips of excess ketchup. “Uh, well for starters, yeah, I am a guy. My name is Lance McClain. Twenty-two years old, and uh, I’m Cuban. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know but first… what’s Akira… or, Keith… like? What’s his favorite color? Food? Hobbies? Taste in movies? Embarrassing baby stories? What was his childhood stuffed animal’s name?” Lance sits forward on the sofa, leaning over the small coffee table to look at Shiro with excitement. “I want to know _everything.”_

Shiro leans back on the other couch, his arm thrown over the back casually. “I can tell you those things, certainly,” he says, eyes flicking to somewhere over Lance’s shoulder. Lance turns to see a photograph of what looks like a much younger Shiro, with jet black hair instead of white, no facial scars, and two flesh arms, one of which is thrown around what must be a teenage Keith, no more than thirteen or fourteen. They’re posing next to a huge motorcycle, covered in grease but smiling brightly at the camera. It’s clear from the photo, and the way Shiro looks at it, that Keith and his brother are very close.

“But some things are not for me to tell,” Shiro continues.

“That’s true,” Lance says, and turns back to meet Shiro’s eyes. “I’ll have to ask Keith myself one day.”

Shiro nods and smiles. “How about I start you off with the story of how he and I first met?”

Lance blinks. “You’re not related?”

Shiro shakes his head. “No. If we were, he wouldn’t have gotten away with stealing my car.”

Lance chokes on the miso soup. “He _what?”_

Shiro is smirking now, a dangerous look in his eye that looks absolutely terrifying, but also every inch an older brother eager to embarrass his sibling. “I was a recruiter for the SDF, you see, and I was visiting his middle school…”

* * *

When Keith wakes up on January 2nd, it’s to a much quieter room than where he had fallen asleep on January 1st. The silence is almost piercing; Keith waits for the sound of Lance’s mother rattling pots and pans in the kitchen, or his sister’s kids arguing over a toy they had gotten that past Christmas, or his abuela shouting something in unintelligible Spanish (not that Keith is able to understand Spanish anyway). The sounds never come.

Keith kind of misses them, in an odd, lonely sort of way. In only twenty four hours he had grown accustomed to the hustle and bustle of the McClain household, and how the silence is just… not enough.

He had awoken to a five year old digging their elbow into his chest and another one yelling directly into his ear, only to be pulled off by the scruff of their necks a moment later by an apologetic woman in her late twenties and dragged through a bedroom door with a slam.

For a split second, Keith wondered if Shiro had been faking being gay the whole time and had finally brought home a wife and kids, before he remembered what day it was. This was his soulmate’s body, his soulmate’s house, his soulmate’s room.

Keith never really liked the idea of soulmates. He didn’t like the freedom to choose being ripped from him, he didn’t like the idea that there was only one person in the world for him. He didn’t want to be saddled to someone he didn’t even know. Mostly, though, he didn’t want someone to be saddled with _him._

Keith is a hard person to love, he knows from experience. His mother left as a child, and only after reconnecting for two years does he have the confidence to say she loves him. Even Shiro took years to warm up to, the man having the patience of a fucking god to put up with Keith’s reckless preteen behavior. And now a new person the universe has decided to pair him with enters the picture, and he has to start the process all over again.

Keith almost wished he didn’t have a soulmate.

But he had one, he was there, and he was stuck in his body for twenty four hours. He could sit in his soulmate’s room and sulk for that time, or he could do what he could with what he had, and push through it.

There wasn’t much time to observe his surroundings (beyond the star charts pasted to the wall, a LEGO Sputnik on the bedside table, and many framed photos of who he assumed were family and friends) before an older, bustling woman threw open the door again and practically dragged him from bed. From that moment on **,** it had been a day full of charades and, once his soulmate’s (who’s name was Lance, he was able to figure out) mother realized Keith wasn’t Latino and therefore didn’t understand Spanish, using Lance’s siblings to interpret for him.

“Sorry she’s so excited,” Lance’s sister, Veronica, apologized with a sheepish smile. “We’ve all just been so excited to meet you.”

Keith flushed a bright red at that, and muttered a word of thanks into his elbow.

Keith learned that his soulmate lived in California, but went to Garrison University in the New England area (ironically, Keith had been accepted to that school, but his acceptance had been withdrawn when he was arrested for a minor assault, but the guy had it coming, so...). He learned that he was a first-generation Cuban-American, one of the first in his family to go to college, and was studying to be an astronaut. He met his best friends Hunk and Pidge and learned (an extremely biased and definitely exaggerated version) of Lance’s personality as a flirtatious goof.

The conclusion he came to was that Lance’s family loved him with everything they had. It was a kind of familial love that Keith envied **.**

It was all so overwhelming that it didn’t occur to Keith to actually look in the mirror until the urge to pee was just too great. One look, and Keith was on his knees, thanking the universe for making him gay. His soulmate was all sharp points and long limbs, nut brown skin and eyes holding every color of the sea. Keith is fucked.

It also didn’t occur to him to try texting his own phone number from Lance’s so they could exchange contact information. Instead, he borrowed a marker from one of his nephews (Keith honestly cannot remember how Lance is related to this kid, there’s just so many people) and scribbled his name and number on the inside of his left wrist. And on the inside of his right, just over his pulse point…

_Your family loves you very much. I hope one day to join them._

It was cheesy as fuck, but Keith, who had grown up convinced that he was too broken to have a soulmate, was too high on cloud nine to care. He had fallen asleep with that marker still in his hand.

Keith sits up and he’s back in his own room, band posters (with sticky notes on them— those weren’t there before) and cluttered desk just as they had been when he’d fallen asleep. Keith reaches for the closest sticky note, stuck to a signed ONE OK ROCK poster.

 _I was going to reject our relationship because you have MCR posters in 20_ ~~_19_ ~~ _20, but I listened to these guys and they’re alright. You get a pass. -L_

Keith huffs a laugh. Pidge had been right when she said Lance is very picky about his music. That’s a gold star for Keith in Lance’s book.

There’s another note on his bedside table drawer.

_I almost accidentally cut my finger off on that knife you keep under your pillow. Your brother wouldn’t tell me why you have it, said it’s not for him to say. Anyway, I put it in here so I don’t cut my (our? your?) hand off in my sleep._

Keith opens the drawer and sure enough, his mother’s knife is there, still wrapped in its cloth but clearly placed there with gentleness. He pulls it out and places it back under his pillow with a small smile.

There are more notes scattered around his room; obviously Lance had been quite thorough in his observations of Keith’s life.

As he’s pulling a black t-shirt from the dresser (with a sticky note on it critiquing his apparently abysmal fashion sense, but also calling it hot, which is giving Keith mixed signals), his phone pings with a notification.

**Unknown Number**

_So only after waking up did I realize I didn’t put my number in your phone_

_which is like the first thing I told myself I would do after waking up in my soulmate’s body_

_but it didn’t even cross my mind so this is embarrassing_

_thanks for having the presence of mind to give me yours_

_this is Lance btw <3 _

_you wrote in english so I’m really hoping you didn’t just ask Vero how to say that and you actually know how to read this_

_otherwise I’m gonna need to register for japanese classes_

Keith flops back into his pillows, dropping his phone into his chest and hiding his face behind his hands like some lovestruck teenage girl as the texts keep flooding in. There’s a bubble of something inflating in Keith’s chest, and he doesn’t know how much longer he has until it bursts and everything in it escapes.

His phone finally stops vibrating. Keith breathes heavily and lifts the phone to his face, a dumb grin breaking out on his lips as he scrolls through the numerous texts, finally making it to the last one.

**Unknown Number**

_My family loves you. Can’t wait until the day I love you, too._

The bubble bursts.

Keith texts back through shaking fingers.

**Akira**

_Hi, Lance._

_I think I’m the one who will need to register for Spanish classes if I want any hope of talking to your abuela._

_and…_

_I can’t wait._

  
.o0o.

“Wow,” Lance breathed. “I mean just… wow.”

“Yeah,” Keith agreed from the other chair.

“Fascinating,” said Slav, enthusiastic. “For such a thing to be possible Newtonian physics would have to -”

“We totally swapped bodies man,” Lance went on, over the top of Slav’s rambling. The engineer carried on regardless. “Like. I was you.”

“I know.”

“You were _in my body_.”

“I saw, Lance.”

“Why’d you make me walk funny?”

“Lance!”

“I’m not freaking out, I’m not,” he babbled, pushing one hand through his slightly sweaty hair and waving the other around. “It’s just, it’s just really weird, dude! Not that the wrist writing or the flowers thing wasn’t weird, but this is super weird. _Me_ . _In you_.”

“I get it!” Keith half-shouted, fists flailing before he buried them in his knees. “Yeah. It’s… strange. I’m glad nothing like that happens in this dimension.”

“Whaddya mean?” Lance demanded, his voice bubbling, hysterical laughter tickling his ribs, striving to surface; held down by a choking weight. “What’s wrong with my body? You saying you don’t want a piece of this?”

“I didn’t-” Keith started, cutting himself off when all the blood rushed to his face instead. “A-anyway, you’re the one who wasted no time checking me out!”

“What d’you expect, Keith!” Lance retorted, arm just missing Slav’s head as he threw it out. The alien was still muttering to himself, calculating on his many fingers. “We were all destined to be together and love each other and stuff, of course I wanted to see what you look like!”

“Yeah, well -” black and lilac slid behind sinfully long lashes, “-seemed like you liked it, anyway.”

“I -” The denial got stuck in his throat. He would have choked had Keith not still been a fetching shade of cerise. “So-so what if I did?”

“Snolikeldhymd.” Keith muttered, or something along those lines. Hard to tell when the blood in his ears was so loud.

“What was that?” he asked, because apparently he had sadistic tendencies brought out by mortification, exposure to messy science and close confinement with your actually-kinda-totally-hot teammate.

Keith looked like he was seriously considering the advantages of spontaneous combustion. “I _said_ : it’snotlikeI’dmind.”

He spoke so quickly it took Lance’s brain a full five seconds to catch up. “Ye- yeah?”

Keith forced a shrug, glaring at the console like he was mad at it for the state of his complexion. “I’m only human.”

Unlike your god-like abs, Lance’s traitorous brain reminded him. Gee whiz.

Wait.

“You really were.” Lance began, wondering. “Shiro – that Shiro said your Mom lived in Chicago. She’s – she’s probably human, then. In that dimension.”

“Yeah,” Keith murmured, quiet. He had hunched up in his seat to hide his crimson face, but Lance guessed it wasn’t embarrassment that made his teeth clench, that put the shadow in his eyes when he looked up. “What about you?” he asked. “Is your family really like that? That big?”

“Like -? Oh. Yeah.” His heart clenched at the thought. “Yeah, they were pretty much the same. Louis had a stupider haircut.” Unless he’d changed it since Lance left, anyway.

“They’re nice.”

“Huh?”

Keith’s eyes were still veiled in something thick and grey and impenetrable, but at least he was looking at him. “They’re nice. Your family. They’re a lot, but… in a good way. I think.”

The pain in his chest felt warm, Keith’s opinion heating it up, thawing out cold loneliness. “Yes. Yes, they are.”

“All the Spanish was confusing, though,” Keith offered, dragging the conversation up.

“I miss Spanish,” Lance admitted thoughtlessly, and it didn’t hurt as much as it could have. He tilted his head, considered the other boy. “Do you actually speak Japanese?”

Keith shook his head, the ends of his hair dragging against the collar of his armour. A few strands had dried into points, blood stuck in it. “Not really. I know a few words.”

“I shouldn’t start calling you Akira then?”

Keith shook his head again, face screwing up in thought, hesitant words leaving pursed lips. “No. But I think that might have been my Granddads name? Dad could have said that once.” He fidgeted, escaping Lance’s gaze. “I don’t remember much.”

“- and the probability of that is approximately seventeen million, one hundred and twenty three thousand, nine hundred and forty two to one!” Slav finished, triumphant. He looked from Lance to Keith and back. “Sorry, what were you talking about?”

“Ah – it doesn’t matter, Slav. Do you have more to show us, or are we off the hook?”

“I’m sure I can tune into some other dimensions.” Slav went to work, and Lance settled back into his seat again. But not before sharing one awkward, secret smile with Keith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sonder (n.) The realization that complete strangers have lives just as deep and complex as your own.
> 
> aka the Body Switch Soulmate AU
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! I don't normally leave open endings, but for this fic it just felt right. I hope you enjoyed it, Sara! <3
> 
> The Japanese is my own; it's not super important to the plot to know what it means but essentially, Shiro says good morning, Lance uses a generally feminine pronoun referring to himself which reminds Shiro it's Soul Day, and then he asks if Lance is Japanese to which Lance blue screens and Shiro is like "apparently not."
> 
> Next up is Valania, and it's a good one so prepare yourselves! :D


	5. ghost of days gone by

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith shuffles over to the coffee maker glumly. "It's just… the notion that there's already someone out there, a cookie-cutter perfect person picked out for you, without giving you any input or any say at all? It's psychotic! What if the person sucks? What if they don't use their blinker when they switch lanes? What if they're a fucking serial killer, or one of those dogfight douchebags?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! Today's my turn to take y'all on a soulmate adventure—I hope you enjoy my little fic, written with all the love in the world for Sara. Thank you x10000 for everything you do for us and for being our friend. You've brought us all together and I've made friends I think will be in my life forever, you included, and I appreciate that more than you'll ever know. I hope you can come back and read through this project when times are tough and remember that you've got an entire group of people that love and support you. 
> 
> Side note: This is Spanish-heavy so I'll be adding translations in the end notes, so check that out! I tried my best with the Cuban slang—I'm a native Spanish speaker from Mexico, and it's different in both pronunciation of some words b/c of accent as well as slang.

_He's running. A young, boyish giggle bubbling up his throat as he struggles to keep up with the children running ahead of him._

_"¡Espérenme!" he yells, and even though Keith doesn't speak Spanish, he knows the meaning of the word purely on the strong longing burning fervently in his chest. The need to belong and fit in. A longing Keith has been familiar with for a long time._

_“!Apúrate!” an older girl yells back, stopping. Veronica, he suddenly knows. “¡Si no, se le acabarán los brazos de gitano a Don Álvaro!”_

_He tightens his hand on the small, crumbled wallet holding his allowance and pushes himself to run faster. Veronica's hand finds his when he finally reaches her and the other children crowding around the foodstand and the aging man behind it._

_When the rest of the kids are running away to play, holding their little paper plates excitedly, he and Veronica finally reach the front of the line. She's still holding his much-smaller hand in hers._

_“¿Qué bola, chicos?” Don Álvaro greets, thick moustache twitching._

_"Lo mismo de siempre,” Veronica says with a smile. She orders their desserts and helps Keith count the right amount of pesos before she hands the money over to the amused man._

_They part ways with a wave and a quick quip of “¡Ciao, pescao!” and “¡Y a la vuelta, picadillo!”_

He's about to take his first bite of the enticing pastry—the smell of guava fills his senses and makes his mouth water—when he wakes up.

It's sudden and unsatisfying, like a cliffhanger—he can still smell the jelly, feel the texture of the cake in his fingers. Can still feel the sun beating against his back, the salty breeze kissing his face.

He sighs and stares at the ceiling. 

-x-

"Soulmates are a sham. Straight up a fucking scam."

Shiro frowns, spatula held in his right hand, and concern in his eyes as he glances at his brother. "Bit of a strong stance to take at—" he glances at the digital clock on the stove. "—8:17 am. Good morning, by the way.”

"Yeah, well," Keith sighs heavily, reaching for the mug cupboard above the sink. "Whatever. It's true and you know it."

"How do you figure that?" Shiro quips back easily, turning back to the pan he has on the stove.

Keith shuffles over to the coffee maker glumly. "It's just… the notion that there's already someone out there, a cookie-cutter perfect person picked out for you, without giving you any input or any say at all? It's psychotic! What if the person sucks? What if they don't use their blinker when they switch lanes? What if they're a fucking serial killer, or one of those dogfight douchebags?"

Breathing hard, he stomps over to the fridge and grabs the creamer, slamming the door harder than necessary. He hears Shiro turn the stove off behind him with a sigh.

"Well," his brother says, clearing his throat as he scoops the scrambled eggs he'd been cooking on three plates he'd set on the table. "I… Suppose that’s one way to look at it… Did something happen?" He sucks in a sudden, eager breath. "Wait… Oh my _god_. You had your first dream last night, didn't you?"

"We don't even speak the same language!" Keith snaps, setting his cup down on the counter a little forcefully; some of the coffee inside sloshes against the rim warningly. "I—I'm not ready for this. I never had a choice, I didn't ask for this! I don't want it!" 

The excitement in Shiro's eyes shifts back to concern. "C'mon, kiddo," he says giving him a comforting smile. "Destiny picked this person for you for a reason. Trust it." He takes a second to arrange toast, bacon, and the eggs on one of the plates with extra care. "It's never been wrong before. Now come on, let's sit down and enjoy breakfast, yeah? Adam should be down any minute." 

But Keith huffs in annoyance, his stomach dropping to his toes at his brother's words uneasily. "Not hungry." he mutters darkly, snatching his coffee and stomping out of the kitchen, heading back upstairs. 

He knew Shiro wouldn't understand. People with 'soulmates' are all of the same opinion: Destiny has never once been wrong. So why would it be now?

-x-

He hasn't forgotten the first dream—anything but, really. It'd been in the back of his mind day in and day out. 

The worry and dread pooling in his gut at the whole prospect tapers off around week four, when the echo of the scent of guava jelly no longer lingers in his mouth; not his own memory of its sweet taste, but someone else's. 

So when the second dream _does_ come, a whole two and a half months after the first, Keith is still Not Ready. 

-x-

_The breeze is warm and salty on his face; his hair dances playfully around the nape of his neck and his ears. There's sand clumping between his toes and at his heels, cool and wet._

_He's careful not to wander in too deep as he lowers the little blue bucket in his hands and fills it with foamy ocean water. When he stands up, preparing to go back to Vero and everyone else, a flash of burnt orange catches his eye, sun reflecting brightly off of it._

_It's the color of the sunset, glittering in between the froth of the waves invitingly. He reaches for it, marveling at it for a second as his fingers wipe wet sand off its polished surface. It's so beautiful, he doesn't think twice - this one's coming home with him today._

_He shoves it in the pocket of his swim trunks and heads back to his sister, mindful not to spill any of his cargo. He glances over at the rest of his family—his parents next to his grandmother, laughing together at whatever it is adults laugh about. Off to the side, Luis is working hard to bury Marco in the sand, while Veronica is carefully crafting a sandcastle._

_He makes his way to his sister and sets the bucket down beside her. "Gracias," she says, brow furrowed in concentration as she carefully deposits the next tier on one of the towers. "Ahora ayudame con esas cubetitas."_

-x-

Unlike the first time, Keith regains consciousness slowly; the transition is so smooth, he doesn't fully register it for a few seconds. 

The unsettling feeling returns to his gut when he realizes it'd been a dream—another memory. Foreign but so familiar, there's an ache in his chest he can't pin a name to.

He has the urge to reach in the pocket of his sweatpants, the image of a red seashell burned in his mind's eye, and though he knows it won't be there, he can't help it when his impulsive hand reaches for it and finds nothing but lint. 

It's not disappointment he feels, he tells himself. Of course not. 

-x-

There's never any sort of indication. Nothing to suggest a dream is coming to him; no weird headaches or stomachache, no weird gut feeling. 

Even so, it's never invasive. It's almost natural, when they do happen. It makes no sense, how comforting he finds them. 

And truly, _that_ thought is scary as hell.

-x-

_He doesn't want to leave._

_There is a pit in his gut as he watches his mom pack his belongings away, some into suitcases, others into boxes and trash bags. His old toys seem to be headed to the dump, and though he knows he hasn't played with them in a long time, he feels a deep sadness_ . _Those are_ his _toys, so why is mami putting them in bags?_

_She's cleaning methodically, moving from shelf to shelf; she nears a little bucket behind a big framed picture of his entire family, and he feels panic engulf him. "¡No mami, eso no!" he cries out before he can help it, running from the door threshold where he'd been hiding to the shelf. He takes the bucket and holds it to his chest, cradling it protectively._

_His mom sighs tiredly, looking almost sad. "Tengo que limpiar, mi corazón," she says warily. "No podemos llevar todas nuestras cosas a América." She reaches for it, but Keith refuses to hand the bucket back. This is his collection, his treasures. He can't part with them._

_His mom sighs again. "Bueno pues, ¿qué tienes ahí? ¿Me enseñas?”_

_Hesitantly, he nods and holds the blue bucket out for her to inspect._

_There are a myriad of sea and conch shells lining the bottom of the bucket along with his favorite model toy car - the one his Pipo had gifted him last year for his birthday._

_“Son conchitas,” his mom almost sounds surprised, gentle fingers combing through the contents, wiping dried sand off of his favorite red seashell - the one he’d found last year. “No podremos llevar todo, mi cielo,” she says._

_His face falls and he feels tears prickling at his eyes. It’s not_ fair _. “¿Por qué no?” he asks, voice tiny and heartbroken. He doesn’t know if his mom doesn’t hear him or if she chooses not to answer._

_He doesn’t ask again, though; instead, he looks down at the bucket and its contents. He doesn’t want to leave any of them behind, of course not. But if he had to pick…_

_He reaches inside, his fingers curling around the red seashell tightly._

-x-

When Keith regains conscious thought, the first thing that runs through his mind is _I get it_. 

He sits up, feeling his chest constrict with the emotions he’s still experiencing—not his own but still personal and familiar. At his feet, Kosmo yawns and stretches his long legs.

Being forced to leave home. Starting a new life. Not having a say in it. Feeling scared and lonely and having to put on a brave face because dammit, you gotta deal with it on matter what. 

He can still feel the echo of dried sand on his fingers and shell ridges against his palm when he shakes himself off and gets up to start his day. “C’mon,” he says to Kosmo, voice quiet. “Let’s go for a walk.”

-x-

_“I cannot say it,” he says with a sigh, words heavily accented and slow._

_“Sure you can, bud!” his friend says, tightening the yellow headband around his forehead. He smiles at Keith kindly. “You just gotta practice! I’ll help you, okay?”_

_English is_ so hard _, Keith thinks to himself as he nods. He misses being able to speak Spanish at school. He misses the beach. He misses Cuba._

_Still, Hunk—his only friend so far—is really doing his best to help. From inviting Keith over to his house after school to watch Ninja Turtles and Thundercats reruns (in English, for practice, of course), to letting him borrow his Goosebumps book collection, they’ve been joined at the hip for the last year or so, since they met in 3rd grade._

_The least Keith can do is try his hardest, too._

_“Okay,” he says with a newly-determined nod. “Can you repeat it, please?”_

_Hunk grins. “Okay, ready? Re-fri-gi-ra-tor.”_

_“R-re-frid-gira-tor,” Keith repeats slowly, concentrating._

_“See!” Hunk says, pumping his fist in victory. “You did it!”_

_“I…” Keith blinks before a grin spreads over his face. “I did it!”_

_The high five he gives Hunk reverberates in the empty playground._

-x-

“You look tired,” Shiro comments the next morning as Keith trudges into the kitchen. He’d avoided glancing in the mirror earlier, when he’d brushed his teeth and shaved, but he can almost _feel_ the bruises under his eyes.

“Yeah, no shit,” he grumbles under his breath irritably.

“...Soulmate keeping you up, huh?” Shiro asks in that high insinuating voice he seems to think is casual. “I remember those nights. Oh, I made a different kind of coffee,” he remarks, motioning to it with a jerk of his head. “Give it a try,”

Keith avoids responding the quip about his soulmate by taking the cup and swallowing a gulp of caffeine. 

Shit, it’s _sweet._ Unexpectedly so. He’s never had anything like it before, but it’s almost… familiar. Nostalgic. He looks at the drink in his hands, wracking his brain. “...Shiro,” he hears himself say, voice faint. His eyes are focused on the foam swirling in the depths of his cup. “What is this?”

“Good, huh? It’s Cuban coffee,” he explains easily, and Keith sucks in a startled yet knowing breath. “I need a stovetop espresso maker to make it taste classic and authentic, though, according to this one blog I was reading yesterday, but the French press—” His brother’s ramblings fade into the background, like a white noise machine. 

He’s never had Cuban coffee until right this second—so why does he suddenly feel like he’s been drinking it for years? Like he knows the taste intimately? He frowns as his stomach twists in knots.

He knows the answer, of course. 

“—Keith?” Shiro’s voice comes back into sharp focus and Keith blinks, feeling disoriented as he tears his gaze away from the hypnotic foam. 

“W-what?”

“Man, you really _are_ tired, huh?” Shiro remarks, raising an eyebrow in concern. 

“Um,” Keith takes a deep breath, attempting to clear the fog clogging his brain. “Yeah. I am. Listen, Shiro…” he looks back down at the cup in his hands. “...do you think you could teach me how to make this sometime?”

“Sure!” Shiro says kindly, turning back to the dishwasher. 

He’s not changing his mind about soulmates He’s _not_. Coffee’s just good. That’s all there is to it.

He takes another sip and almost manages to convince himself. 

Almost. 

-x-

_He takes a deep breath and wipes his palms on his jeans._

_“¿Qué pasa, mi amor?” his mom asks. Vero looks up from her phone, adjusting her glasses._

_“Tengo algo que contarles,” he starts, and though these days he finds himself speaking more English than Spanish, this is something his mom needs to hear, too. His eyes shift from both his mom to his sister and back, gauging their expressions._

_Veronica raises an eyebrow, setting her phone on the table facedown. “...Sounds serious,” she says slowly._

_His mom looks alarmed. “¿Pero qué pasa, pues? ¿Te ha pasado algo?”_

_Keith takes a deep breath. “Soy bisexual,” he says, and even with all his earlier practice in front of the mirror late at night, his voice still quivers. “Se que es algo inesperado, pero es mi verdad.”_

_He can’t raise his eyes to look at his mom and sister, much as he feels like the silence is smothering him._

_Just when he thinks he might actually cry, the tension in his shoulders pulling his muscles taut, he feels his mom pulling him into her chest; her arms hold him tight and her perfume envelops him like a safe zone._

_“Oh, mi amor,” she whispers soothingly. “Si es tu verdad, vívela con alegría y orgullo," she says and dammit, those are tears he’s fighting back and losing against. “Mujer, hombre, no importa. Tu sabes que a mi solo me interesa verte feliz.”_

_All he can do is nod, feeling Vero’s hand ruffling his hair reassuringly._

_His heart feels like it’s going to burst, it’s so full._

_-x-_

When he wakes up, there’s an ache deep in his chest; a feeling so potent and sincere it leaves him breathless. He can feel tears running down his cheeks, dampening his hair and pillow. 

He takes a deep breath, attempting to get a hold of his errant emotions—no, not _his_ , he reminds himself. This isn’t his relief. His love. Not his.

It’s harder and harder to tell the difference lately.

-x-

“Adam,” Keith asks later that same day, after he’s managed to get a hold of himself. 

“Hm?” his brother-in-law intones from his spot on the couch, reading glasses perched at the end of his nose, eyes glued to the lesson plan he’s been working on for the past hour. 

Keith makes his way to the couch, plopping down with a heavy sigh. He runs his hands through his hair, partly in frustration, partly in mild embarrassment. 

“Can… can I ask you a question?”

Though Adam doesn’t look away from his computer screen, Keith notes his fingers pause briefly before he continues typing. He’s listening. 

“What… what does it mean when—” he takes a deep breath before expelling it through his nose quickly. “When the dreams come more often?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Adam blink and finally tear his gaze from the laptop in front of him. 

“The soulmate dreams?” Adam asks, though it doesn’t sound like a question. Keith nods almost begrudgingly all the same. “Well, that depends,” he answers slowly, almost as if in thought, but Keith recognizes this as his and Shiro’s careful voice. What they use when they don’t want to spook him. 

“On what?” Keith presses, embarrassment and irritation growing by the millisecond. 

“On what you’d classify as _more often_.” he says. 

Something about his words sends a chill down Keith’s spine. He purses his lips, taking a second to collect himself and reign in his anxiety. “...Every other night?” he finally says, voice small and brittle. 

Adam’s usually composed, teasing face is struck for a second, eyes wide and mouth slack. “Christ, Keith,” he breathes. “I thought you meant like, maybe a week or two apart, or something. Not _every other damn day!_ ” 

“Okay, so what the fuck does it mean, then?!” he demands, feeling something not quite like panic gripping at his insides.

“Well…” Adam takes a deep breath, one hand removing the reading glasses before rubbing his eyes tiredly. “Sorry kiddo, but you’re not gonna like it.”

-x-

_He reads the letter one more time, grin permanently etched on his face._

_‘Welcome to Garrison University! It is with the greatest pleasure that I write to congratulate you on your admission…”_

_“C’mon, dummy,” Vero says. Keith glances up to look at her and sees pride swimming in her eyes. She’s grinning at him, clutching her old polaroid. “Hold it up so I can get a good shot!”_

_He complies, showcasing the letter’s contents and holding it up with pride. The words 'Congratulations!’ and ‘admission’ keep repeating in his head like a mantra as Veronica directs him to “Say cheese!” and takes the picture._

_His family’s behind her, all standing with the same pride—especially his parents. He thinks he can see his mom wipe at her eyes discreetly. She’s both ecstatic that he’s going to college and sad that her youngest will be leaving home, he knows._

_He hasn’t given himself permission to think about that—he’ll be leaving home for the first time since their move to America nearly a decade ago. He’ll have Vero nearby, what with her attending the same school, but… it won’t be the same._

_He looks back down at his letter._

_‘Congratulations!’ it still reads, with a finality that hadn’t been there before._

_He sets it down on the coffee table and walks over his mom; she has mascara running under her eyes and her lips are trembling a bit. Still, she radiates pride and joy; he feels his chest size with emotion as he crosses the living room and throws his arms around her._

_If she’s surprised by his sudden hug, she doesn’t show it. A watery laugh bubbles up her throat and she says, so low only he can hear, “Estoy muy orgullosa de ti, hijo.”_

_He grins, his eyes misting. Vero yells “Group hug!” and as his family piles on top of him, he’s reminded that he’ll always have people to turn to._

_-x-_

Waking up is such a heightened experience nowadays.

It’s feels like he’s resurfacing after spending all night underwater. His heart rate is going nuts, beating almost painfully against his ribcage. Breathing labored, he runs a hand over his forehead, noting the hair sticking to his clammy skin. 

It wasn’t really even an intense dream, but he feels the emotions vibrating over his skin, coursing through his blood.

“ _Have you noticed_ ,” he recalls Adam telling him yesterday, when they’d talked. “ _That with every dream, you can almost_ sense _them? Like, you’re hardwired to their feelings, kinda_ ?” When Keith had nodded anxiously, Adam’s face had relaxed into a grin. “ _That means it’s almost time._ ”

The implications of that statement had set off warning bells ringing in his head. He sits up against the headboard, reaching for his phone charging on the night stand by his bed. He wakes up the screen and squints at the bright light hurting his eyes.

When he can finally focus, he groans at the time. Fucking 6 am. He sighs again before noticing a series of phone call and text message notifications from a number he doesn’t have saved in his contacts. 

_5:09 AM - Hello, Kosmo’s owner! You don’t know me, but your dog and I recently became acquainted when he took the liberty of scaring the shit out of me and my cat on this fine morning._

_5:11 AM - An Angel™,_ the second message reads, along with a picture of Keith’s dumb dog laying on his back with his paws in the air: his favorite sleeping position since he’d been a puppy.

“What the fuck?!” he sputters, shooting up out of bed immediately, reaching for the jeans strewn on the desk chair in the corner. There’s one more text detailing the address where to pick up Kosmo, sent just ten minutes before he’d woken up. 

**_6:05 AM - Holy shit, I’m so sorry, I’m on my way right now._ ** He sends in between shoving his feet in his favorite pair of docs. He grabs his jacket and car keys and runs out the door as another text comes in.

_6:08 AM - No rush! He’s so soft and cuddly, I’m not sure I want to give him back…_

-x-

Keith pulls up to the house ten minutes later, throwing a mint in his mouth and checking the address again to make sure he has it correct.

It’s a nice house—small and quaint, only two and a half blocks away from his own house. Keith throws open the car door after cutting the engine with one hand, holding Kosmo’s leash with the other. He runs up the steps to the front porch.

“Stupid goof,” he mutters to himself as he raps his knuckles on the door a few times. “No treats for a fucking week, I swear to god.”

When the door opens in front of him, any apologies he’d been rehearsing on the way over die out in his throat before he has a chance to utter them.

This man is just plain attractive—rich, brown skin, a splatter of light freckles on his nose and the top of his cheekbones, almost like paint splatters. Eyes blue like the Cuban beach he’d seen in one of his dreams once. But there’s something familiar in the curve of his lips. The expression on his brow.

“Kosmo’s dad, I presume?” the stranger says in lieu of a greeting, leaning against the door with an easy smile brightening his face.

“Unfortunately,” Keith responds with an apologetic shake of his head. “I’m so sorry for the trouble. I feel fucking terrible about this.”

The other man chuckles warmly, waving a dismissing hand. “Nah dude, no trouble. A surprise, for sure, but he’s really well-behaved.” He opens the door enough for Keith for see Kosmo napping on the couch with a pretty gray short haired cat snuggled right on top. “Blue adores him, which is just unprecedented, honestly. She only likes me sometimes.”

Keith heaves a long sigh, feeling exhaustion grip at his bones. “Seriously, I’m so sorry. I’ll wake him up and get right out of your hair.”

The stranger waves him inside, making his way to the sleeping pair. He picks the cat up and cradles him to his chest. “So, how did he escape, anyway?”

“My brother lets him out in the mornings,” Keith explains as he clips the leash to Kosmo’s collar. “But I think his husband forgot to close the backyard gate yesterday after taking out the trash.”

Kosmo lets out a whine, stretching his legs as he’s roused from sleep. “You and I are going to have a lengthy talk about boundaries and running away,” he hisses at the husky, glaring. Kosmo whines again, hiding his eyes behind a heavy paw. “C’mon, let’s get you home.” 

“Aw, don’t be so hard on him,” the stranger says, cat still in his arms. “He really wasn’t bad at all!”

Keith knows Kosmo is really quite well-behaved thanks to the intensive training Keith had drilled him on as a puppy, but still. “Noted,” he says. “Well, thank you for looking after him, uh…” Keith trails off, realizing they’d never introduced themselves.

“Lance,” the stranger responds with that same easy smile. 

“Right, Lance,” Keith repeats, and there’s a warmth blooming in his chest as the name leaves his lips. “I’m Keith. Thank you for looking after Kosmo.” He tugs on the leash gently; Kosmo remains motionless. Keith sighs, exhausted. “Kosmo,” he starts in his commanding voice. “Fall in!”

Immediately, Kosmo’s ears snap up and he sits up quickly, climbing down from the couch. “Attention!” Keith continues and Kosmo sits with his back perfectly straight, eyes locked on Keith intently. 

“...Military drill commands?” Lance asks curiously. 

Keith blinks before he realizes how weird that must’ve looked for anyone else. “Yeah,” he says. “My brother was in the Air Force for quite a few years. Helped with Kosmo’s training.”

Lance nods along, looking interested. “Not gonna lie, that was pretty awesome,” he comments. “Looks like you’ve got him really well-trained.”

“Not well enough, it seems,” Keith retorts lightly, glancing back at Kosmo, who has yet to move from his spot, waiting for further orders. “Kosmo, forward march!” 

He does as directed, standing from his attention position and immediately marching towards the door at a steady pace. “Thanks again, Lance,” Keith says gratefully as he makes to follow. 

Lance smiles warmly with a small wave. “Don’t mention it. You’ll have to bring him by sometime, though, to play with Blue!” 

-x-

It’s been a long day and all Keith wants to do is faceplant directly onto his pillow and sleep for the next ten thousand years. 

From dealing with Kosmo’s antics early in the morning, to meeting an attractive stranger he can’t stop thinking about, to an annoying day at work at the garage. It’s a wonder he’s still somewhat sane. 

“Sorry,” Adam apologizes again, a sheepish look in his eyes when Keith explains where he’d ran off to in such a hurry that morning. “Honestly,” he continues with a frown. “I could’ve sworn I closed that damned gate…”

-x-

_It’s dark out and stupidly early when he hears a thump from downstairs. It’s loud enough that, even with his bedroom door mostly closed, he can hear the sudden rustling emerging from his living room._

_Probably just Blue, he tells himself as he feels sleep claim him again._

_A loud bark breaks through the silence, and he immediately bolts out of bed when, from somewhere downstairs, Blue yowls loudly._

_Hunk’s out of town for the week, visiting Shay two towns over, so it can’t be him down there with some random dog - he would’ve called first, right? Hunk’s thoughtful like that._

_He grabs his phone and runs the stairs, coming face to face with a giant, mutant of a dog. He’s black with light gray spots speckled throughout his fur. A husky, mixed with something. Bear, maybe, just judging by the size alone._

_“H-hey, puppy!” he calls out nervously. The dog’s ears perk up and he raised his head; his tongue lolls out of his panting mouth. “Hey sweetie,” he says when it hasn’t attacked him yet. Maybe it’s harmless._

_He stretches a hand out slowly—he can see a tag attached to a collar glinting at him in the dim lighting._

_The dog sniffs at the offered hand before giving it a friendly lick, tail wagging._

_It’s awfully cute, with big soulful eyes and thick fur. Blue seems to have calmed down and approaches it cautiously before rubbing her forehead on its hind leg._

_“How’d you even get in here, huh?” he asks idly as he scratches a spot under its chin, reaching for the collar. “Kosmo?”_

_There’s an excited bark at its name. He smiles, pulling his phone out of the pocket of his sweatpants. “Let’s give your parents a quick call, yeah?”_

_He dials the number and it rings for about a minute before a generic robot asks him to please leave a message after the tone._

_He’s quick to explain the situation and rattles his address off before he hangs up. It’s still really early, so it makes sense that Kosmo’s owners didn’t respond. He bites his lip, debating on what to do next before sending a series of text messages._

* * *

_He spends about an hour just playing with the giant dog and Blue; thankfully, he seems to be fully potty-trained, so that’s a relief, at least._

_He takes a moment to contemplate just_ how _Kosmo had made his way inside his house. He’d locked the screen door leading to the patio and backyard last night, just like every night—Blue would’ve bolted otherwise._

_“You don’t happen to have opposable thumbs, by any chance?” he asks Kosmo, who tilts his head as if considering the question. He’s retracing his steps in his mind again when his phone vibrates with a new message._

‘6:05 AM: Holy shit, I’m so sorry, I’m on my way right now.’

_“Looks like you’ve got someone coming for you, boy,” he says quietly. Kosmo lowers his head onto his paws and closes his eyes. Nestled on his back. Blue does the same._

_He smiles to himself, standing up from the other side of the couch before making his way to the kitchen. He needs some coffee._

_The knock on the door comes just about ten minutes later. He’s busy whipping the sugar foam for his coffee when he hears several knocks on his front door._

_He quickly wipes his hands on a kitchen towel before removing the stovetop coffee maker from the heat. “Time to go home, Kosmo!” he whispers as he passes by the living room, where Kosmo and Blue are still napping_

_He opens the door._

_It’s a man—tall and slim, with long, dark hair in a state of chaos. Wrinkled jeans and shirt paired with a leather jacket. Scuffed boots. Thick eyebrows and dark gray eyes that wonderfully compliment the pale of his skin._

Un mango madurismo…

_He scrambles his face into an open, easy smile. “Kosmo’s dad, I presume?”_

_-x-_

He startles awake with a gasp.

It’s him. It’s Lance. 

_Okay_ , he takes a deep breath. _So, definitely_ not _into dog fights. Extra points there._

He blinks at the darkened ceiling, processing his thoughts and emotions. 

His soulmate lives two and a half blocks away. His soulmate’s eyes are a soft, ocean blue _—_ contrasting beautifully with his smooth, brown skin. His soulmate’s pet cat loves Kosmo. His soulmate’s name is Lance. 

He sits up, his heart hammering madly. 

On the nightstand, his phone goes off with a message notification. He snatches it with a shaking hand. 

_4:18 am: It’S YOu oh my gOD_

_4:18 am: KOSMO’S DAd_

_4:19 am: KEITH. YOUR NAME’S KEITH. I REMEMBER._

He takes a deep breath and composes a simple response. 

**_4:20 am: ...Yeah._ **

He wonders if Lance has just been staring at his phone waiting for Keith to respond. Or maybe he’d just had the message typed and ready to go. 

_4:20 am: Are you busy today? Do you have time to talk?_

_4:21 am: Sorry, I’m just excited lmao you can bring Kosmo if you want. I can make some coffee._

Keith feels anticipation building in his gut, which is honestly, kind of pathetic and ridiculous _—_ he’s _met_ Lance, thanks to his dumb dog. And their conversation was easy. Comfortable. He nods to himself, making a mental note to call out sick from work today.

**_4:25 am: I’m not busy. Coffee sounds great._ **

**_4:25 am: What time do you want us over?_ **

Okay. He’s doing this. This is really happening. He takes a second to recall the memories he’d seen the last five months or so, all still ingrained in his memory. 

He’s spent his nights getting to know Lance intimately; warming up to the idea of having a soulmate at all, really, without ever really noticing. 

He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. Jesus. He can’t believe this is happening. 

His phone buzzes again. 

**_4:27 am: Whenever you want. I’ll be here. xo_ **

He feels himself turn red, remembering his smile. His eyes. The high cheekbones and sharp jawline. 

He shakes his head, filing those thoughts away for later. 

For now, he needs to jump in the shower. He has a soulmate to formally meet.

-x-

“Morning,” Shiro says with a smile half an hour later. “You’re up awfully early,” 

“Yeah,” Keith says as he walks into the kitchen, Kosmo trailing behind him dutifully. He grabs his car keys. “I’ll probably be out all day. Meeting up with Lance.”

“Lance?” Shiro asks, looking up from his newspaper as he takes a sip from the mug in his hand. 

“Soulmate,” Keith answers shortly as he throws the door open. “See ya.”

He hears Shiro choke on his coffee as the door shuts behind him.

-x-

Lance looks nervous and excited as he sets a cup down on the table. They’re sitting out on the patio, Kosmo and Blue napping in the early-morning sun. 

“I hope you like it,” Lance rambles as Keith grips the cup and takes a sip. “Cuban coffee’s much sweeter than people are normally used to,”

“I love it,” Keith says, sincerity coloring his tone. Lance’s coffee is much better than Shiro’s had been that morning several weeks ago.

The relief on his soulmate’s face is palpable, and he relaxes. 

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Lance says quietly, eyes averted. “I… know you don’t like the idea of having a soulmate. I saw you talking to your brother about it.”

Keith blinks, taken aback and then realizes he must be talking about the conversation he’d held with Shiro after that first dream five months ago. He sighs, frowning at his booted feet. 

“Yeah. That’s what I thought, too.” He murmurs. “I don’t know if I’m so sure, now.”

Lance’s head snaps up. “R-really?” He asks almost timidly, eyes wide and almost hopeful. 

“I…” he clears his throat, feeling hot all over. “I mean, how do you get to know someone so intimately for months and not feel something for them?” 

Lance flushes a gorgeous red, but he’s grinning so fully and unabashedly, it makes Keith’s gut flutter. 

They drink their coffee, watching Kosmo and Blue lounge in the sun. Their hands find each other on the table, and this, Keith thinks as Lance explains that his roommate and best friend Hunk is visiting his own soulmate a few towns over, this is what peace feels like.

He smiles slightly and glances up at the sky, bright with the rays of sunrise. 

_Gotta hand it to you, Destiny, universe, God or whoever is up there making the big decisions._

He squeezes Lance’s hand a little and feels Lance do the same in return.

_You were right._

* * *

The fourth time the screen faded to white, outlines of their other selves blurring into nothing, it was a while before he could find his voice. Lance thought maybe he’d lost it somewhere in a dimension where he had the warmth of sun on his face and of skin on his palm. Keith’s murmur had him swallow the lump in his throat. 

“Seems nice.” 

“Yeah,” he agreed, a little bit hoarse. “Yeah, it does.” He took a risk along with a nervous half-smile. “We’re, uh. We’re kinda cute.” 

He was ready for Keith to flush this time; able to picture the exact shade of pink before it blotched alabaster cheekbones. He wasn’t ready for the smile; too vivid and bright in the stale air and sickly artificial light of the cockpit; something like delight, something like pride. 

“Yeah?” Keith flexed his fingers, adjusting in his chair to turn his body more towards Lance’s. “Your cat was pretty cute too.” 

“And your giant dog. That thing must eat more than Hunk.” 

“Worse," Keith said, a smirk and a laugh glittering in his eyes. “Bet it eats more than _Pidge_.” 

Lance grinned. “Oh man, I know. Where does she put it all? She's like... three foot tall!” 

“Three feet?!” Keith snorted, sniggering. “She’s not that short!” 

“Maybe not to you, shorty,” Lance taunted, pulse quickening at Keith’s expression of gleeful outrage. 

“I am _not_ short! 

“You’re shorter than me.” 

“By a whole _inch_ ,” Keith retorted. 

“Size matters Keith,” he responded airily, wagging a finger. “Whatever anyone might say otherwise.” 

“You—we’re the same size!” 

“You wish.” 

“Stand up!” Keith demanded, scrambling out of his seat. 

“What?” 

“Stand up, I’ll show you.” 

“Okay,” Lance drawled, pushing himself up, “but don’t blame me when you’re disappointed.” 

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Slav quipped, wriggling out of the way of their shuffling feet, tail curling around a torn up patch of floor. 

...And then Lance was standing face to face with Keith; close enough to count the flecks of blue that made his grey eyes look lilac-violet from a distance. 

He couldn’t swallow. His mouth was too dry. 

“See?” Keith breathed; Lance felt it against the sensitive skin of his lip. “Pretty much the same.” 

“Not - not quite,” Lance insisted, quiet and airless; clinging to the few centimetres and his control over his own heart. 

Perfect height for Keith’s lashes to fringe his gaze. Perfect height for kissing. 

“Okay,” the Red Paladin admitted. Was his voice always that deep? Had Lance just imagined it lowering, or... ? “I’m bulkier to make up for it. You’re skinny.” 

“Hey,” his voice cracked. “Nothing wrong with that. Plenty of girls prefer ‘em lean.” 

He watched Keith’s Adam’s apple slide under pale skin, pink creeping down. “Plenty of guys, too.” 

Holy Crow. Holy Crow, this was happening. Was it happening...? 

Then Keith pulled away. “And it doesn’t matter, right?” he said, heaving in a breath. 

“What, why? Why doesn’t it matter?” It _did_ matter. It had to matter, didn’t it? 

“I mean -” Keith was still smiling, thank quiznak; must not have noticed the tremor in Lance’s arm, the way his knees were threatening to dump him right back into his seat; if not on top of Slav, “- isn’t that what all this means?” He gestured at the screen; wavy grey shapes elongating and shrinking, sliding on and off as the engineer tuned into more unreachable happiness. “That it’s not just about looks?” 

“Oh.” He must be purple now. He'd blushed so much it was gonna stick, and damn, the way Keith was looking at him right now was making it worse... 

The other boy shuddered, chest rising on a lungful of air, fists curled into his sides. Still, he met Lance’s eyes; unwavering. “It’s not just about looks,” he repeated, quietly. 

Oh. _Oh._

_“_ Oh. _”_

“Personally, I think you’re both very handsome,” Slav added, throwing Lance out of the path of oncoming mental crisis. 

“You... excuse me?” 

“Oh yes,” the alien said, nodding. He pointed at the screen with three hands; the picture now sharp and colourful; another world, another Keith and Lance. “You see?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Espérenme - wait for me  
> Apúrate - hurry up  
> Si no, se le acabarán los brazos de gitano a Don Álvaro - if you don't, Mr. Álvaro'll run out brazos de ginato (gypsy arms - it's a Cuban dessert)  
> Qué bola, chicos - what's up, kids?  
> Lo mismo de siempre - same as always  
> Ciao, pescao!” and “¡Y a la vuelta, picadillo - this is Cuban slang that's equivalent to see you later alligator/after a while, crocodile  
> Gracias - thank you  
> Ahora ayudame con esas cubetitas - now, help me with those little buckets.  
> No mami, eso no - no mommy, not that  
> Tengo que limpiar, mi corazón - I have to clean, my love (exact translation would be "my heart" but this is a common term of endearment in Spanish reflecting love)  
> No podemos llevar todas nuestras cosas a América - we can't take all our stuff to America  
> Bueno pues, ¿qué tienes ahí? ¿Me enseñas? - well then, what do you have there? can you show me?  
> Son conchitas - they're seashells  
> No podremos llevar todo, mi cielo - we can't take it all, my love (again, exact translation is "my sky" because Spanish speakers love waxing poetic lmao)  
> ¿Por qué no? - why not?  
> ¿Qué pasa, mi amor? - what's the matter, my love?  
> Tengo algo que contarles - I have something to tell you  
> ¿Pero qué pasa, pues? ¿Te ha pasado algo? - well, what's wrong, then? did something happen to you?  
> Soy bisexual - I'm bisexual.  
> Se que es algo inesperado, pero es mi verdad - I know it's something unexpected, but it's my truth  
> Oh, mi amor - oh my love  
> Si es tu verdad, vívela con alegría y orgullo - if it's your truth, live it with joy and pride  
> Mujer, hombre, no importa. Tu sabes que a mi solo me interesa verte feliz - women, men, doesn't matter. you know I'm only interested in seeing you happy.  
> Estoy muy orgullosa de ti, hijo - I'm so proud of you, son  
> Un mango madurismo - ripe mango (this is Cuban slang for "that person is really hot/attractive)
> 
> Thank you for reading! Next up is EnlacingLines!


	6. What would you give?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And as wished for, I grant you the ability to see your soulmate. Among other things. Now go back to your world, Keith Kogane. I look forward to seeing you again someday.” 
> 
> Then a shadow falls across his eyes, blocking out all sensation and he falls, silently screaming into the void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EnlacingLines here! This is for you Sara: thank you for so many things I don't have space to name them all. You are a wonderful, kind, generous and supportive friend who I am honoured to have met. You have helped me through so many things and made me smile countless times, so I hope I can do the same with this story. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“Oh no, you’re a young one. I hate it when you’re young, it makes this all so much more troubling.” 

Keith is cold. Not a familiar feeling, he’s used to climates that never reach lower than mild on most scales. He’s also not felt anything, at all, in so long. To experience something other than a state of consistent nothing should be a cause for celebration. 

Except this coldness comes from the fact he is clearly stuck in a magical vortex, a creature of mist and shadow who lounges, almost bored,on a throne of obsidian as his only companion. 

He swallows, and the creature shifts; does not walk precisely but materialises into a somewhat humanoid shape, although it is far more violet and grey mist than it is flesh. It’s face is a mask of plated bronze, a fringe of emeralds hanging down over where there should be eyes. A gash of darkness tilts upwards like a mouth, but thin and far too empty to be usable. 

Keith is scared. So incredibly scared, but there is nothing he can do now but await it’s judgement. 

“Now, little one. You came here to know your soulmate. I am impressed, it is not an easy spell. But I fear you are unprepared for what it costs,” it says, voice like thunder rolling through the ocean. 

_Cost?_ His mind shivers, for he had not anticipated this. The spell books gathering dust in the corner of his father’s room had simply given him the ritual, nothing more. But Keith should have known it would never be this easy, nothing ever is. He curses himself for being weak enough to crave the knowledge of his person. 

“I have nothing to give,” he says, the truth bleeding from his tongue. 

The creature though, laughs, lightning cracking a forest in two. 

“I’m afraid, small thing, you do. Everyone does. You have power, incredible power at the very least, but that I like. That we’d like to see you grow and shift the world with. No, there will be something else you hold dear,” it says as it glides closer. 

Keith knows the thing he’s managed to appear before is older than possibly time itself and just as malevolent; an old one, a thing of bedtime stories apparently all too real. Yet despite this, he cannot help but doubt it’s words. He stands here because he’s lost everything. Family, home, any prospect of peace in a life of his own. If he gets out of this place, he’s being shipped off to the other side of the world. 

Alone. So alone and numb; has been since his father died. He has nothing but his own name, and the creature can’t possibly take that. 

“Ah, there we go. There is always something,” it says as a strange flash flares in Keith’s vision for a moment, a silvery tint to the universe. 

Before he can question anything, the being slithers forward until the mask is meer inches from him, and he stumbles back, breath caught. 

“Now, I’ll give you one hint. Because you are so raw and wild that no one has given you any so far, and I want that talent of yours to shine, not consume you. Listen closely. There is always a counter. Every curse can be broken, every poison has an antidote, every immortal has a weakness. Let those words walk through your heart, and keep you learning,” it says, then plunges a clawed shadow hand straight through his chest. 

Keith gasps, the cold spreading; ice though his bones, his flesh, his very self. He cannot breathe, cannot think, just watches the hand seem to grapple inside him before easing out, inch by inch. As it finally emerges, the claws clutch what appears to be a pearl, small and gleaming, offering a soft glow in the shade of the room. 

“Everyone has something. And as wished for, I grant you the ability to see your soulmate. Among other things. Now go back to your world, Keith Kogane. I look forward to seeing you again someday.” 

Then a shadow falls across his eyes, blocking out all sensation and he falls, silently screaming into the void. 

* * *

It takes him almost a year to notice. Which says much about the state of his life as a child, but he’s eleven when he realises he cannot be touched. Well, that is wrong. He cannot be touched with kindness. That’s the the only term for it. The kids in his school throw punches with ease, and he counters back just as readily, spitting blood and magic and sporting bruises in his third foster home. Kind touches are no longer things he is accustomed to receiving. 

It comes from a girl in the mandatory therapy sessions this set of social workers have seen fit to demand he attend. One of the older kids from his foster home trips him, and for once he isn’t expecting it. She runs over, moves to offer a hand and then -

\- stops. Mid-gesture, as if she’s trapped in a dream, eyes a little misted. Her hand drops and she blinks, Keith by this point sitting up on his own power, watching her warily. She seems to start, knock herself out of the stupor, and ask if he’s okay, as if nothing strange passed. 

But she doesn’t offer her hand again. 

He watches then, for other fleeting moments. A teacher wanting to pat his shoulder seems to think better of it. A family looking to adopt pauses before declining to offer a hand in greeting. No high fives, no hugs, no touch at all that’s not laced with violence. 

What he does have, it becomes clear, is mage sight. 

Rare, so very rare that it keeps Keith in homes longer than it should, gives him leeway at school and a semi-wide berth from some would-be antagonists. He can see the way magic forms and curls in the world, break down its components on sight. He can see that which is hidden, spot traps and pretenses with just a flicker of his gaze. It fuels his magical practice and he’s dubbed a prodigy by the time he’s fourteen, alongside the brand of ‘troubled.’ 

So this is his trade then. The power to see his soulmate, but never to touch them. 

He knows now, even just four years on, that he’d been incredibly stupid to try that spell. He’s not even sure he could recreate it now, isn’t sure how he managed it at ten years old. Soulmates are a complex fixture of the world; ancient writings tell of signs and symbols on skin that would give indications of who they were, but there is no trace of these now. People find their soulmates, but it’s through accident or twists of divine beings, much like the one Keith had met. 

Humans are not meant to seek their soulmates through their own means, and Keith is a walking example of why. 

But mage sight is a powerful gift, and in a way that shadow thing has blessed him. For beyond all else, Keith loves his powers, and adores this addition which helps build and grow what he does. He almost, most of the time, thinks it’s worth it. 

Almost. If it weren’t for the crawling in his skin, the itching that some nights leaves him close to tears, that no number of blankets and pillows can truly replace. He longs to be touched, feel a hand in his, a hug of comfort, an encouraging pat on the back. Anything. Anything at all. 

But those nights fade, and reality seeps in. He’s surrounded by people who mostly distrust or dislike him, so even if he could feel, they wouldn’t be offering anything. Which is fine, he prefers it anyway. He’s not even sure now he wants a soulmate; he’s seen what people are, what they can do. Is there really another person in this world with a fate tied to his, who would care for him without condition, love him because he is Keith?

He cannot imagine it. 

So mostly he tries to forget. Practices his magic, lives with what he has and it works. For he is admitted to Garrison Magic Academy at fifteen, above hundreds more wellbred and better placed than him. 

And that is enough. 

* * *

He almost gets thrown out of the academy a year later, only saved by his assigned mentor, Shiro. He isn’t grateful, because despite his initial pleasure, the Garrison is terrible. It’s full of magicians too proud and too arrogant to know when their theories are out of date, and it’s a run-in like this that has Shiro dragging him to his apartment, slamming the door shut. Adam, who is for some reason obviously trying to animate gingerbread, pauses, and retreats to another room without a word. Shiro exhales, and Keith prepares himself for a fight. However, Shiro’s voice is simply tired when he speaks. 

“You can’t keep doing that. There’s a limit to how much I can protect you,” he says.

“I don’t need your protection,” Keith yells back, poised and ready for attack, even if Shiro isn’t. 

It’s so much easier to defend and strike than feel anything else.

Shiro moves forward then, and by the ease of his stance, Keith knows what he’s about to do. He feels, strangely, tears prick at the back of his eyes, fists starting to shake. Because he wants the hug, or the holding of his shoulder, whatever Shiro is aiming for, so badly he wants to jump forward and take it for himself. 

But he cannot. Shiro stalls, as they always do, but his hand doesn’t fall. Instead, it braces, a frown on his face, and Keith watches in confusion as Shiro actively tries to fight it. There is no glazing of his eyes, no forgetting second; Shiro can feel the curse, or the power, whatever it is and is trying to break through. 

He cannot and eventually he stops, panting and leaning against the door, Adam running in when Keith shouts for him, afraid. He expects them to back away, to dismiss him and encourage his expulsion. But they don’t. And for the first time, Keith tells someone else what he did. 

They look at him softly as he finishes, not quite pity but something close. He doesn’t want it but he understands. Adam makes tea, hands it to him and the cup between them makes this the closest contact he’s had with another person in years. He has to hide his face by staring at the mug to keep his composure. 

“Your mage sight is a rare tool, and almost exclusively comes from the Old Ones. I’m surprised no one has asked you anything before,” Shiro muses, and Keith shrugs. 

“Most people don’t care,” he says, truthfully. 

“We care. And you can’t go on like this,” Adam says, sharp and clear in the room. Shiro sighs and nods before leaning forward. 

“I agree, but a deal with one of them isn’t going to be solved by an incantation. But if there is anyway to help Keith break it, the Garrison will probably know,” he says, firm and with drive, Keith’s own heart warming at that. 

Shiro is one of the most talented spellcasters he knows, and the only one able to fight the power surrounding Keith. If he believes there is a way, maybe there is.

“The creature said there is always a loophole,” he agrees and Adam snorts. 

“Do not trust what those things say,” he cautions and while Keith mostly agrees, he does think it was telling the truth. 

So with that, he settles somewhat. Shiro and Adam become almost as close as family, or what Keith can vaguely recall family feeling like. It eases the soreness and bite of his need to feel warmth from another person, even if it can’t remove it completely. 

The years pass, and Keith grows. His powers develop, he is top of his classes and manages to avoid upsetting too many incompetent scholars along the way. He isn’t always successful, but it’s better; he’s learning and although he doesn’t exactly have friends, he respects and works with his classmates. 

He meets Lance McClain in his second year. 

It’s no different from any other day. Another class, another test, another time to use the magic thrumming under his skin. Only the result is that once class is over, a pair of hands slam into the desk in front of him. Keith doesn’t start, even though he is surprised, and looks up to see a guy glaring at him. 

“You win this time, Kogane. But watch out, I’m coming for you.” 

The man is tall, around Keith’s height, eyes a sharp shade of blue that crackles like flame so hot it cannot be touched. He’s all limbs and curling brown hair, a smirk on his face that is strangely tantalizing, a secret waiting to be whispered. His image is instantly framed in Keith’s mind and it takes him a moment to realise what’s been said is a challenge. 

The man spins and marches away dramatically, two other people following in his wake. Keith blinks, bemused, having no idea what that was about. But it soon becomes clear. After that, he notices the guy in most of his lessons, even living in rooms close to his. In fact, he can’t stop noticing; for Lance, as he learned his name is, won’t let him forget. 

Lance declares them rivals during a magical theory class, to Keith’s original horror. He dislikes having attention drawn to him, especially by someone who seems to thrive on drama and spotlight. Keith needs, craves to be far away from that type of focus, but Lance won’t let him. And mysteriously, it draws him in, for he finds he couldn’t resist any challenge put forward by Lance, has a counter for every slight. He previously wouldn’t have thought he could be goaded in such a way, but Lance, as he has now learned, is an exception to his every rule. 

But, within a year, things shift. In that time, he’s learned to understand Lance; his need to prove himself, his drive channeled in not necessarily the best directions. They work through their own sticking points, Lance learning to not doubt his own instincts, Keith to be less impulsive. They work well together, keep each other on track and honestly, it’s fun when they do. Not that Keith will admit that. 

They aren’t friends, are just a little closer than classmates. Keith thinks perhaps it could be different. Lance tries to include him in wider discussions but Keith is the one who backs away. He prefers it like this; with his life how it is, he cannot get too close. Sure, he has Shiro and Adam but that is luck he doesn’t think can be repeated. 

He also may have a slight staring problem when it comes to his Lance. And only Shiro, due to an unfortunate incident Keith is forever trying to forget, knows this. 

It’s better this way, especially with his...crush, if he has to admit it, on his classmate. Keith tries to stay away from such feelings, there is no point given how he is. But Lance is a persistent presence on the edges of his life, sharing the same classes, the same responsibilities, and the same space. Its as if the universe is out to test his patience constantly. 

He can’t say when it first began; the warmth which kindled in his chest when Lance’s eyes gleamed in victory at a perfectly created spell. His laughter makes Keith’s own smile emerge, and although he’s a little brash and dramatic for Keith to know how to deal with at times, he cannot help but be drawn in. There’s a ray around him; a glimmer that Keith catches out of the corner of his eye whenever he enters a room, as if Keith is honed in on his very self. 

He wants to keep Lance at a distance. There can be no good in getting this attached to someone, but when he thinks about doing so, it actually aches. He enjoys spending time with Lance, enjoys the Keith he _is_ with Lance; more carefree, more open - just more. But he can’t have it all, not really. He could never tell Lance that his encouragements and careful tones are the things that keep Keith going when the days seem hardest. That his laughter echoes round his mind for hours. 

That he wishes he could feel touch, just to know if he truly is as warm as Keith thinks he must be from his ways and his smile. 

But he cannot push him away. So here he is, essentially torturing himself as he feeling run deeper and deeper. 

“Hey man. What are you doing here so late?” 

Keith looks up from his books, still working on an essay he should have easily finished hours ago if his mind hadn’t been caught on Lance. 

“Studying,” he says, voice cracking from hours of silence and a fatigue he hadn’t realised had settled in. 

Lance chuckles and steps into the library. He approaches the table, and Keith blinks as a steaming mug is placed before him, a small paper bag following. 

“Well, can’t have you collapsing from lack of sugar,” he says with a wink before pulling out the chair opposite and flinging himself into it, long legs dangling over one arm as he sprawls. The movement brings a quirk of a smile to Keith’s lips, which he hides instantly in favour of checking out the treats Lance must have brought. 

Keith stills. Cookies, but obviously homemade by the shape and the smell. His heart does something abnormal and he has to recall how to breathe again before he’s able to make eye contact. To his surprise, Lance’s cheeks are tinged with a blush, and to Keith tired eyes he almost seems to be glowing again; outlined in gold which must be a reflection of the warm lamps here. 

“Couldn’t sleep, so started baking. Then thought I might know someone who could help me out with like, the fifth batch I made,” he says, laughter high and strange, echoing in the vaulted room. 

Keith is too stunned to say anything for a second, but that’s a second too long and Lance suddenly stands abruptly, reaching for the cookies. 

“T-this was stupid, sorry, l-”

“No, no- it wasn’t -” Keith interrupts, standing too and reaching for them and -

\- they are close. Very close, the movement bringing them almost face to face. Keith can feel his whole body heating, he is not normally this close to anyone, never has or gives himself the opportunity. 

_Kiss me_ , he thinks which is absurd because he knows it can’t happen but, as if hearing his plea, Lance closes his eyes, and leans in. 

Then of course, he stops. Pauses, then backs off, eyes opening with a glazed expression which makes Keith’s heart shutter so completely his eyes blur with tears in an instant. What did he think; that he’d fall for someone and they’d break the curse? Laughable. He turns away, knowing he has time, wiping at his eyes and trying to piece himself back together. 

“What the hell was that?” 

Keith spins, only half finished dashing away tears, and stares as Lance marches back over. 

“I just… I definitely tried to kiss you but it didn’t happen?” Lance says, looking so confused and Keith can only stare. For Lance is the second person to actually recall the fact he tried to touch Keith, and despite having seen it once, it still shakes him. 

“You did try to kiss me,” Keith says out loud, and then immediately regrets it because he sounds so wonderstruck it’s hideous. But Lance’s face softens. 

“Yeah, Keith. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I’m pretty gone for you,” he says with a shrug, hand flying to his pockets in a nervous gesture. 

Keith cannot help it, he grins, brain simply devolving to only contain the thought of ‘Lance likes me’ before the seriousness of the situation sinks in. 

“You can’t kiss me. No one can, no matter how much I want them to,” he says, bitterness in every syllable. He collapses back down into his chair, and after a beat Lance follows suit. He drags his chair close though, brow furrowed. 

“Okay, I’m gonna take from that you _want_ to kiss me, but it obviously doesn’t work, so you’re gonna have to explain more, buddy,” he says slowly. 

Keith knows people would normally show some sort of comfort in these moments, a touch to the hand or a hug, but he knows nothing of these things so settles for simply answering. 

“I do want to kiss you, Lance. I really, really do. But no one can touch me. It’s the price I paid for a stupid bargain years ago,” he says, the cracks in his heart starting to open once more. 

To his surprise, Lance sits up straighter. 

“A bargain? Wait, you actually asked for mage eyes from an Old One?” he says, incredulous. 

“How did you know it was an Old One bargain? And no, I didn’t want mage eyes, but that’s what I have. It’s not worth it, never has been by the way,” Keith says through the shock. 

Lance laughs and tips his head back, hands covering his eyes. Keith doesn’t really know what to do with this reaction, so he waits it out with blood hammering in his ears. After a few minutes, Lance calms. 

“Sorry. I really didn’t mean that, it just makes this whole thing stupid. Mage eyes are pretty much only given by Old Ones, or passed on by a family member favoured by them. I’d assumed you were the latter. It’s why I wanted to beat you. Perfect Keith, blessed with powers. But you’re more like my sister,” he says. 

It’s a lot of information all at once, but Keith settles on the last part. 

“Your sister?” 

Lance smiles, a little sad but very fond. “Yeah. She drowned when we were kids. We’re twins, I tried to save her but she was too far. And as I looked this… _thing_ appeared. Tall as the trees, strangely transparent. It dipped a hand towards her and she was suddenly swimming again.” 

Keith stares, mind spinning. He’s never heard of anyone else meeting an Old One before except in stories. Lance sees his amazement and shakes his head. 

“She has premonitions, uses them in her job actually. No idea why it picked her, and she’s never seen it again. But it’s like you, that force of magic far beyond all of us. Old and powerful, sometimes strange. But if you didn’t actually _want_ power, what were you trying to do?” he asks, curious.

Keith swallows. He looks up at Lance, who is still hesitant but obviously caring, as close as he can be without becoming embroiled in the curse. Lance, whom he cares about far too much to not tell him, despite what may happen. 

“I wanted to find my soulmate. It was...my father had just died, and I was being transferred to a foster home far away. I’d been living alone for almost a year until I got reported by my school. I wanted to know someone was there when I felt truly alone,” he explains, voice low but still somehow managing to carry. 

He can’t look at Lance. He focuses on the floor, the space between his feet. He hears the exhale, and the sound of Lance leaning forward. 

“You know, if I could hug you right now, I would. Probably so tight you’d tell me to stop. I’m a great hugger, you know. Ask Hunk. And of course I’d be kissing you senseless.” 

Keith slowly raises his head, finally meeting Lance’s eyes. The expression which awaits him is hopeful, wondering and perhaps a little sad. It’s not what he’s expecting at all given what he’s just confessed. 

“You know, my sister told me I had a soulmate too. All her premonitions are kinda weird, but she said they were just out of reach but always by my side. Didn’t seem particularly hopeful at the time but now… well, I think it’s the best news ever.” 

Keith gulps around nothing, mouth suddenly dry. For he sees it now. That shimmer, that golden hue which always accompanies Lance has been his answer all the while. He wants to laugh, bang his own head against the wall or most strongly, throw his arms around the person who he’s fallen for without realising they are soulmates. 

But he does none of those things. Instead, he draws his chair as close as he dares and smiles at Lance. 

“Hey,” he says, a new greeting, a new moment. 

“Hey Keith,” Lance replies, soft despite the smile growing so widely Keith can barely believe he is the one who is causing it. 

Lance leans forward and lays his hand on the table. Keith starts, then follows suit, their hands placed near but not touching, their own brand of connection. 

And for now, this is all he needs. 

* * *

It’s hard, but they try anyway. Keith feels irrevocably guilty but each time, Lance tells him he doesn't care. It’s not just words though, for Keith truly believes it. Lance still seeks him out, and the two learn exactly how close they can be. It’s lots of trial and error, Lance’s face glazing over a few times when Keith brushes an arm too close, or nods off as they watch a movie, body falling towards Lance’s. 

It makes Keith burn with the need to close the gap like never before. Yet at the same time, this is still almost enough. Lance is creative. He traces the air around Keith’s face as he is able to cup his cheek, leans in to mutter still-secret affection in a tone that no one else can hear. They still place their hands side-by-side, fingers spread where they long to touch. 

It’s good, so much more than Keith could ever have imagined. But it’s not enough and it’s not fair on Lance. So, he takes to research. The Garrison’s libraries are full of books, some half crumbling and barely legible, and he knows there must be answers here. Things he can do to break the bargain. 

_There is always a counter_ , it had said and if anyone is going to find it, it’s him. 

“Babe, I understand, I do, but you’re going to work yourself sick. It’s bad enough with all our classes,” Lance says one night as he follows Keith down into the underground stores of the Garrison.

He’d seen more books here on a trip with Shiro a few months ago, and he thinks he’s onto something. Only it’s dark, cold and truly a place where weird things are bound to happen, and Keith is slightly regretting his decision. 

“Lance, if I work myself sick in order to be able to hug you, I think it’s worth it,” Keith grouches, while peering down a corridor he doesn’t recall seeing before. 

Lance’s breath hitches, and Keith slowly advances, seeing a door open at the far end. 

“Keith...I need to tell you - wait, what the hell?” 

Keith stops too, both having reached the door, Lance’s sentiment exceedingly accurate. 

For the entire room is covered in runes. 

It’s plain otherwise; seems to have been used as storage, but the walls to the ceiling are covered with chalk markings; huge circles overlapping one another with ancient symbols. They pause in the doorway, Keith turning to Lance. He nods once and as one, they slowly enter, Keith slightly in front with Lance watching his back. 

“These are old. I can’t read them,” Keith mutters, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. 

Lance turns to the left, staring at one of the largest, the symbols which seems to light up just a little as he approaches. But even with Keith’s mage sight he cannot make sense of them, the language so dead to this world it is out of reach. 

“Why are they here?” Lance asks, turning to Keith. 

“The question is, what are you two doing here?” 

Keith conjures fire to his hands as he spins, letting the flame die a little when he sees Iverson standing there. But something is amiss. His mage sight hones in the eyes, too vivid yellow to be at all human in nature. 

“You aren’t Iverson. Who are you?” Keith snarls, flames shooting upward in warning. Behind him, he feels a wind grow, grinning as Lance too exercises his own power. 

But the thing wearing Iverson’s face simply laughs. 

“It doesn’t matter. For this room is the last thing you will see,” he says. 

Keith launches forward at the words, but it doesn’t matter. The door slams shut before he can reach, and no amount of force will make it budge. 

“Let me try,” Lance calls, and summons a blast of air which rocks the foundations but does nothing to shift the door. 

“That’s one hell of a locking spell,” Keith grunts, but Lance is no longer looking at the door. 

“Keith… trouble.” 

Keith turns and sees a group of runes across the room are spinning. It should be impossible, symbols are just that, but these have agency, power unlike anything he’s seen before. 

And it’s charging. Fast. 

Lance is his only thought. He needs him safe, needs him to stay out of the firing line but there is no time to make a plan. So he does what he needs to do, and pushes Lance out of the way. 

They connect. It’s not meant to be kind touch, but it’s not meant to be something violent either, even if it is the result. It works though; and that’s all that matters in this moment, even as Lance looks up with terrified eyes and yells his name. 

Keith smiles at him, then turns just as the runes seem to fly off the wall towards him and his vision sparkles bright and his body heightens with pain. Just for a moment though, a second of sensation, and then it all dissolves into a bright void and awareness fades. 

* * *

“Well, well, well. I wasn’t expecting this. You mortals are truly delightful.” 

Keith’s senses crash back as that voice from his past laughs it’s way through human speech. He sits up, the throne the creature sits on just as as menacing as before, it’s gaping mouth a deranged smile.

“Keith Kogane. We meet again. This time by dying, of all things. Now tell me, how has life been? Did you enjoy your gift?” 

The anger bursts through him, hot and blazing but quenches quickly as his eyes take one look at the being before him. He inhales and it stands, sauntering towards him as the shadows rise. 

“I got my wish. I found my soulmate. But the price was too high. If I could, I’d undo it,” he says, truth spilling out willingly. 

He remembers Lance, sitting as close as possible. Leaning forward to place his forehead against one that would not meet his, Lance’s fingers tracing nothing as his hand traced as close to Keith’s cheek as he could get. 

His eyes sting, hands shake. He closes his eyes against the wave after wave of the past; of all he’s learned, all he’s gained and the love he’s found with a person so precious, he’ll always be grateful for what he’s had. 

But he stands before an Old One for the second time in his life. There is no chance this ends well. He barely remembers being attacked by those tunes, that act which undoubtedly caused his presence here. However, there is nothing he can do now, so he opens his eyes, starling a little as the masked face looms close. 

“You would turn back time, and never learn of him?” it asks, tone curious. 

Keith sighs. “I don't wish for that. I wouldn’t swap this for anything. Even if I can never touch him,” he admits. 

The creature spreads its hands. “I gave you the ability to find your soulmate, just as you wanted,” it says, and Keith shakes his head. 

“I didn’t really want that. I wanted… I didn’t want to be alone. And I thought my soulmate, the promise of someone being there, seemed like the best chance. But not being able to touch is…” he trails off. 

There is silence, the shadows swirling around, Keith holding his breath as he awaits the creatures’ thoughts. 

“I took that because you thought you did not need it. An essential part of you that you could not see was a fair trade for powers beyond your grasp. You were desperate. However, this time you are here because I want something from _you_.” 

Keith’s head jerks up. It laughs and holds out a hand, the claws extending almost to his face. It takes all of his resolve not to flinch away. 

“Those runes. They are power you should not have, old power which… well, let’s say it intrigues us. I need the spell,” it says, and Keith frowns. 

“I’m not sure if I remember it all,” he admits, for he’d been far more focused on preventing it’s consequences. 

“That is not a problem. I can take it from your mind. I only ask as you are one of ours. We chose you when we gave you power long ago. I could steal your life and those secrets in a heartbeat, but this is preferable.”

_We chose you_. The idea forms, and Keith takes a step back, the claws halting just shy of his nose. 

“I’ll give it to you. On the condition you give me back my ability to touch.” 

There’s a pause; the shadows seem to thicken, dense and billowing and Keith cannot hold his ground against the thunder cresting in the air. His skin begins to vibrate, his hair stands on end and the being dips to float over to him. 

“Oh I see, time has made you bold, small one. You really believe you can bargain with me?” It asks, and Keith is too scared to shake his head, to take back the words so flippantly given. 

But then, it stops. The darkness disperses and the creature stands as if contemplating him. 

“I am, however, intrigued. I cannot undo a bargain from the past, especially one which is completed. But would be willing to trade with you for the information I need.” 

Keith should be more concerned that it’s regarding him like a kitten playing with a toy, clearly amused at what he may think. But this is potentially his only chance. 

“I want Lance to be able to touch me,” he says, clear and ringing throughout the room. 

The creature laughs, grey shadows dancing around it. “Of course you do. And I always said, Keith Kogane, that there are loopholes. That can be given, in exchange for your memories of that rune circle. Oh, it is always a pleasure talking with our blessed mortals. I long to see you both again soon,” it says. 

Keith doesn’t have a chance to question what it means by those last two sentences before it launches at him. He sees those claws outstretched, that smile so wide and then he is gone; a numbness of mauve clouding his vision, suspending him, almost cradling him for a second. Then he falls; settles into nothingness with a strange sense of satisfaction. 

It doesn’t last though. There’s a constant din, muffled but persistent, and it’s disrupting his pleasant floating sensation so much that he has to drag himself to it just to tell it to go away. 

He cracks open his eyes. His vision swims, then clears; the colours blurring to make a face, those eyes alright with worry and a dash of relief, cheeks stained with chalk from the runes.

“Lance,” he murmurs, his head pounding with the syllables, and reaches up to him on instinct. 

His hand goes wide and even as Lance sags with relief and smiles, he glances up and reaches out to save Keith’s hand from falling back down. 

Their hands connect. 

Lance gasps. Keith’s eyes widen as he takes in the sight, sensation following after. His spine curls with the sheer warmth that comes from skin to skin contact. His vision blurs as Lance carefully turns his hand, lacing their fingers together. 

“Keith… baby, what did you do?” 

But he can’t answer, the simple touch is too overwhelming, shooting sparks everywhere from the small points of contact. His head still aches and he is so overwhelmingly tired, but the feel of Lance’s fingers actually _touching_ him is so brilliant yet terrifying. 

“Don’t cry, Keith… Keith we’re holding hands, hey. Hey, babe,” Lance says, voice drawing closer and Keith has to rub his eyes with his free hand until he can see clearly again. 

“You didn’t do anything stupid… did you?” he asks, the pressure increasing on Keith’s fingers, making him jump. But he focuses on Lance’s question, vague recollections of the discussion with the Old One coming to mind 

“No. At least, not the same as last time,” he says, for that’s all he can give for now.

He doesn’t actually remember the full details of the bargain. Nor does he really recall where he is right now. But it doesn’t matter, not while Lance is hovering over him, expression full of care and actually holding onto his hand. Keith’s emotions rise, and he speaks before he can think. 

“You’re here.” 

Lance makes a choked sound, but smiles, the brightest thing Keith’s ever seen. Their soulbond shimmers around him as he leans closer, ever so carefully resting his forehead, the smallest of touches, against Keith’s. 

Even that has him gasping, the sheer scale of connection so great and looming. He thinks, distractedly as he gets used to the pulse of skin against skin, that he could love this man for all eternity. He cannot wait to continue feeling this, to learn all the nuances of touch, to fall completely for Lance. He swallows hard for it’s an exceptionally fierce, enormous, unexplored territory that awaits.

But with Lance, he is sure, he can conquer anything. 

“Yes, Keith. I am. And I’m here to stay,” Lance says, breath dusting across his lips, a promise of a kiss. 

A real one, Keith thinks, will have to wait. But it will be worth it, he’ll bet anything on it. Anything, that is, except Lance. 

.o0o.

His fingers were shaking; Lance clamped them around his knees as he lowered his head, leaning over in his seat until his battered ribs protested. The jitters didn’t stop; they just ran up his blood instead, rattling in his chest like a trapped and frightened bird. The breaths he took past them tasted sour.

“Powerful magic,” murmured Slav, thoughtful. “Nothing like the Altean kind, or…” he faded off. Lance squeezed his eyes shut and counted seconds as he inhaled rather than look at the alien engineer’s expression. “I hope the Garrison in that dimension know what they’re doing.”

“It worked out okay,” Keith said.

Lance’s head flicked up; eyes wide as he stared at the other paladin. “You have to be joking. ‘ _Okay’_?”

Keith’s shoulders rose in his own defence; frown sinking over his eyes. “Hey, I made it!” he protested, embarrassed. “And you – you were alright.”

Quiznaking cheese puffs, he was serious.

“Dude. _Dude_ . You nearly _died_ ,” Lance said, lifting one wobbling hand to wave at the screen but dropping it when it was too unsteady. “You scared the juice out of me! And that’s after you did that crazy deal in the first place, Holy Crow!”

“I -” Keith’s frown deepened, his eyes darkened, he paused for just a moment. “Pretty sure I – that me – would say it was worth it, Lance.”

His throat was raw; the bird behind his ribs struggling against barbed wire. “That’s even worse.”

Keith’s lips parted but he didn’t reply; lashes lifting a fraction in surprise. He didn’t get it.

“Keith…” Where could he find the words for this? Dredging them up felt like all that sharp, snatching wire was being unspooled and pulled out of his mouth, one cut at a time. “Keith, trust me. There isn’t a single dimension out there where I’d be a-okay with you sacrificing yourself for me. Ever.”

Keith shut his mouth, colour high on his cheekbones. “You – you can’t know that. I bet Slav could find -” he looked to the alien man sat curled around some rumpled metal, but the engineer remained motionless and unreadable beneath Keith’s gaze.

“No,” Lance cut in, heat making his raw voice stronger. “No way. If there’s any, _any_ reality at all with a Lance in it who would be okay with you doing that – he’s not me anymore. Not even slightly, just – no. No way.”

His hands were shaking again. He pressed his knees down into the floor.

“Okay,” said Keith, slowly. “Okay.”

“You have no idea what that would do to me. To us.”

“Us?”

“To everyone.” Maybe if he had control of his hands he’d be shaking the other boy; maybe he’d be brushing the crispy hair away from the scabbed over cut on his head, tilting his chin up – kissing until he understood. “You’re one of us, dude. Family. We all care about you.”

He found himself panting into the almost silence – the soft buzz of static and Slav’s hum of agreement the only sound. His chair creaked too loud when he swiped his hand over his eyes; prickly in the dry recycled air.

“Thanks,” Keith murmured into the quiet. “Thankyou, Lance.”

“No – no problem.” He shook out his arms, pulled his back straight. On the floor, Slav crept forward to mess with the console again. “Just know that if you ever do anything that crazy I’m gonna kick your ass.”

“Alright,” Keith agreed, smile curling over his mouth. “Assuming you can catch up, yeah?”

“I’ll catch up, so don’t you dare.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Right,” Lance said, nodding, pretending his face wasn’t a wreck. Wishing his heart wasn’t. “So no heroics, and no deals with creepy Old God thingies. Especially with your ability to _touch_ on the line, geez.”

Keith tried to shrug, too stiff with feigned nonchalance, unable to disguise the damp clogging the eyelashes at the corners. “I – _he_ got you out of it. You heard me: wouldn’t swap it.”

“You’d have had me anyway,” Lance contradicted, shaking his head. “You didn’t need magic peepers for that; I was already there. And touch? How could you ever give up _touch_?”

Keith shifted, uncomfortable. “It’s not like I chose to, from what I saw.”

“But the creepy dude took it because you thought you _didn’t need it_ ,” he protested. “Didn’t need a pat on the back or someone brushing your hair or a hug off anyone? How the heck did you survive?”

“You watched everything I did, Lance.”

“But _touch_? I can’t even imagine -”

“I can,” Keith interrupted. The colour on his cheeks was an unhealthy red, like a fever. “And yeah, it sucks, but… but that’s the way it is, sometimes. Sometimes you don’t have a choice.”

Slav sniffed, a long rasping inhale that made Lance jump in his seat. The engineer’s long tail swished about apprehensively, but he didn’t turn around; kept plugging away at the control system and left the two paladins to stare uncomfortably at each other.

And Lance had nothing to say. No words of comfort, no cheery remark nothing – just a staggering impulse to do or say something, as though that would make up for everything that had happened to Keith, and everything that hadn’t.

“Want a hug?” he blurted, stupid. He was crimson as soon as he finished, face burning like the surface of a star. Keith stared, gormless.

“…What?”

“You heard me.” Don’t make me say it again. “You can, if you want. I never told you, but I’m like, one of the universe’s best huggers.”

Keith shifted in his chair; fractionally closer than a moment before. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Lance insisted, as off-hand as his thudding heart and cracked voice would allow. “Not quite as good as my Mom or maybe Hunk, but still – one of the best.”

Too many seconds.

“Alright.”

At least Keith sounded as strained as he felt. At least they both were kind of unsteady as they stood up, shuffling awkwardly across the dented floor for the second time, this time not stopping inches apart. Lance leaned forwards instead – better to do this fast and hide his face before he lost his mind – wrapping one arm around Keith’s shoulders and the other around his back just above his waist; a slight thrill of surprise when he realised how sturdy Keith was making him shiver. Keith’s hair smelt like blood and sterile handsoap; he probably shampooed with it, the barbarian. Most of all he was warm; warm and solid and alive, taking deep breaths against Lance’s shoulder. And it felt right; his own muscles were relaxing into it like sinking into a hot bath, four hands rubbing his back in soothing circles…

“Uh. Slav?”

“I felt left out,” the alien confessed, his head laid against Keith’s side. The Red Paladin had gone suddenly rigid; frozen beneath the rest of Slav’s hands. Unwillingly, Lance drew back, if only to make the alien give Keith some space. He sniffed again.

“Would you like to see another dimension? We should have time before the Castle gets here.”

“Oh. Oh, right. Keith? Is that okay?”

The other boy was lingering beside him; close enough that Lance could feel the ghost of his heat in the air. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Lance thought they were both reluctant to settle back into their individual chairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this...random fantasy type plot which hit me?
> 
> Next we have the fantastic Zenstrike! So please do look forward to that :)


	7. this second skin continues to answer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry christmas, sara—you are an incredible and powerful person with incredible and powerful words. you make beautiful things and you spread a wonderful sort of love. i wish for tidings for your new year that are as amazing as you are. 
> 
> i hope you enjoy my take on a soulmate au, written just for you. i want this to be a story about healing and love, as in the verb, as in “to love.” i hope it makes you smile.
> 
> with love,  
> zen

TALK TO ME, appears in sharp lines and pinpricks of sleepy sensation on Keith’s left forearm in the middle of his Lit and Religion presentation. It appears all at once, a block quote of bright lettering, a blink-and-it’s-there apparition. One of his classmates clears their throat.

Keith keeps talking.

YOU’RE A TOOL, comes next, slightly larger and scribbled underneath the original message.

“Keith,” his professor says warily.

Keith pauses. He makes a show of glancing at his notes. He gestures vaguely behind him towards his projected presentation. “Yes?” he says. Grunts.

“You have—a message.”

Keith clenches his jaw. He takes a breath in and heaves it back out. “Yes,” he manages. He carries on and no one else says a thing.

There’s a funny sort of broken tension in the room when, just as Keith is finishing, a large and rather hairy depiction of a penis shows up on his right forearm in bright blue.

***

“Nice presentation,” someone says flatly to Keith as he shoves his notes and computer back in his bag.

Keith says: “Thanks.”

Keith grinds his teeth.

Keith squirms his way into his oversized hoodie and hoists his backpack up and storms from the classroom.

“I’ll e-mail you my feedback,” his professor calls. 

Keith stomps his way around the square halls of the first floor until he’s dizzy. Cartoonishly angry faces appear in the crook of his elbows, and then something vague and unfinished on the backs of first his left hand and then his right. He clenches his hands around the straps of his backpack and he ignores the bewildered faces of other students and of instructors drifting in and out of classrooms.

He shoulders his way, finally, into a bathroom and slams his hands on either side of a sink and stares at his flushed, glowering face in the mirror. Lance has clumsily written JERK across their foreheads and Keith shoves a fist in his mouth to muffle a scream.

***

Keith’s earliest memory is tracing a wobbly shape of nothing, bright blue and bold against his left palm, while his father leans over his head and laughs.

“Just wait until you can read,” his father says.

“What does it say?”

“Nothing,” his father replies. “For now.”

With his second foster family, when the memories of “home” and “comfort” and “safety” are already far behind and the sound of his father’s voice has started to fade from his ears, Keith rolls up his sleeves uncaps a snatched marker with his teeth and he starts writing. He writes to remember. Lines and paragraphs from books and stories he’s loved, things he remembers his father saying, daydreamed scenes of his and Lance’s first meeting.

He covers himself in words. It says everything. It says nothing. It’s selfish, he realizes when he’s older; it’s an attempt to put himself elsewhere in the world, and to be seen by someone who has never heard his voice. These are the last things he writes to Lance for years.

***

“Be an adult,” he types in a text message, grinding his teeth and glaring so hard the skin on his forehead starts to hurt. “I’ll talk when YOU’RE ready to talk like adults.”

He sends it.

Lance replies, almost immediately, by writing GROW UP KEITH over their chins.

Keith imagines dragging the mirror from the wall and breaking it over his knees.

“Having a fight?” someone says as they come out of the stall behind him.

“Fuck off,” he says. He flinches. “Sorry.”

The person just shrugs and washes their hands. “Good luck,” they say as they leave, with more kindness than Keith thinks he deserves. Keith watches them go, some of the searing heat of his outrage fading into chilled embarrassment. When he looks back at the mirror, he watches some of the letters scrub slowly from his skin.

***

Writing on Keith’s face is how Lance demands attention. It’s leftover from those years of silence, of a back and forth that was really Lance scribbling his anger over both their skins and then dissolving into a dejected sort of silence that always left Keith feeling naked and vulnerable. The day they had met, Lance had scribbled across their foreheads: FIND ME. Backwards. Borderline illegible. Vibrant and shining as bright as Lance’s smile when Keith had spotted him—really, honestly, spotted him—across the snowy quad.

“Lance,” he had breathed, and like the starlight kisses of doodles on their shared skin he had felt his own voice in Lance’s ears.

***

Lance makes Keith feel all romantic and useless when he isn’t making Keith feel pissed off and useless.

“What—” Shiro starts when they meet for a late lunch in one of the bustling campus food courts.

“Don’t,” Adam says, slapping a hand to Shiro’s shoulder.

Shiro purses his lips. Keith drops down into the seat across from them and scratches his nails against the sticky surface of the much-abused table. 

“Don’t,” Adam says again, low and warning and already tired.

Shiro opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

“We’re fighting,” Keith spits. “That’s all.”

“Right,” Shiro says.

“So it goes,” Adam adds. “Subway?”

“There’s a duck on your cheek,” Shiro says.

“It might be a goose.”

“If it looks like a duck—”

“Not hungry,” Keith grumbles, drawing their attention back to him.

Adam considers him. “I’ll bring you a burger,” he decides and pushes out of his seat. He towers over most of the slumped, tired students milling about. Shiro and Keith watch him go.

“You okay?” Shiro says after a moment.

“There’s blue all over my face,” Keith replies.

Shiro smiles. “Yes.”

“‘Talk to me,’ he says,” Keith continues. “And yet! He won’t pick up the phone. Or, like, answer texts.”

“I see.”

Keith grinds his teeth. Clenches his jaw. “I could talk,” he admits begrudgingly. “I could—talk.”

Shiro, faux-casually, picks at his chin and looks deliberately over Keith’s head and says: “I thought you called.”

“Yes. No.” Keith pauses. He frowns. “I may have sent a—rude message.”

“Oh?”

Keith fidgets.

Shiro waits.

“Lance,” Keith starts. He stops. He tries again: “Lance doesn’t like silence.”

“No, he does not.”

“We’re fighting,” Keith continues.

“Yes.”

“And when we fight I—” He breaks off. He hunches, grimacing, and swallows the rest of his words. 

“You go quiet,” Shiro finishes for him. When Keith looks up from the table, Shiro smiles.

“I sent a message,” Keith mutters, more defensively than he’d like.

“A rude message.”

“A message is a message.”

Shiro taps his cheek. “Quack quack, Keith.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Adam has a theory,” Shiro says, leaning over the table, his elbow squeaking against the table. 

Keith, reluctantly, tilts closer. “Doesn’t he always.”

“We go through our lives with other voices on our skins,” Shiro says, tapping his fingers against the table for emphasis. “We start talking to our soulmates before we’ve even learned how to read. It’s sharing skin. It’s a different way of listening, and talking.”

“Romantic,” Keith says and leans away.

“As all the best things are,” Shiro dismisses. “But Adam’s theory goes like this: we learn to use our skin before our mouths and our ears, and that’s why so many soulbonds fall apart.”

“Bad communication.”

“Bad communication,” Shiro says with a nod. He leans his chin in his head and studies Keith. “There are whole books written about this.”

“I thought this was Adam’s theory.”

“Adam reads books.”

“Uh huh,” Keith says. “What are you really saying?”

“I’m saying you’ve got to just keep trying,” Shiro says. 

“Easy for you to say,” Keith mumbles, and then regrets speaking at all.

“Yeah,” Shiro replies with a tired sigh under his voice. “Easy.”

Quiet passes between them, the chaotic noise of the other tables white and cloudy between Keith’s ears.

“I don’t even know what we’re fighting about,” Keith admits eventually.

“You probably do,” Shiro says with a shrug. “Just think about it.”

They look at each other for a moment. “Sure,” Keith manages, feeling stunted.

“You’ll be okay.”

“Yeah.”

Adam returns with food, the burgers sweating grease and cheese and the serving of fries already half-eaten. “Is everything fixed?” he says, gesturing with the tray.

Keith points at his own face. “Am I still blue?”

“Like a very handsome alien zebra.”

“Great.”

***

There are things that shake Keith’s worldview and rock his voice and his emotions. He can count the turning points of his life on one hand: his dad’s death; the moment his third foster family gave him up and gave up on him; meeting Shiro; finding Lance; and—

***

Shiro and Adam break up a year after Shiro adopts Keith. They both start wearing sweaters. Adam wraps a thick scarf around his neck in the late summer and sweats so much his skin seems to cry. Shiro picks at his sleeves and his wrists and he closes his eyes when he walks to the bathroom in the mornings. They’re afraid of their shared silence.

“Just try,” Keith remembers shouting at Adam one long, rain-heavy day.

“You’re soulmates,” he remembers pleading to Shiro, sitting at the end of Shiro’s half-empty bed and clutching a pillow.

“It’s not that simple,” he remembers them saying, their voices a sad chorus in his memories.

To him, it is simple. It is as simple as this. It is as simple as the dots he leaves up and down his and Lance’s arms. He doesn’t know what else to say, so he catches the deep sadness from his chest and pours it onto his skin and tries to tell Lance, across all the space between them, that they are here and they are together.

***

He works his afternoon shift at the coffee shop he hates and loves. He forgets to be self-conscious about the writing on his arms and on his face until he catches sight of his stunted reflection in the metal of the espresso machine. Lance has scrubbed most of his messages away, leaving only smears of blue and an empty feeling in the pit of Keith’s stomach. In a slow moment, leaned against the counter and ignoring the babble of his coworkers, Keith taps a closed marker against the crook of his elbow and he wonders what he could say and decides: nothing, he can say nothing.

Their apartment is dark when Keith comes home with whipped cream in his hair and coffee smell wafting from his clothes. He listens for a moment, peering down the hall at the light coming out from under their bedroom door. It’s a sad reflection of Keith’s morning: waking with a start on the couch with cotton in his mouth and leaking from the corners of his eyes, with Lance and Kosmo hidden behind the bedroom door and nothing but tension connecting them.

“Keith,” Lance had said sleepily while Keith rifled through their closet. “You didn’t come to bed.”

And Keith had looked back at him and at Kosmo’s blinking eyes in the dark and clutched a pair of pants and thought: I wanted to.

But he had clenched his jaw and shaken his head and gone about his day in silence.

He sucks in a sharp breath and leans one hand against the wall. He wiggles his toes. He imagines the smears of blue up and down his arms, the smudged ghost of Lance’s duck doodle on his cheek. He opens his mouth to call out a greeting, to breathe out Lance’s name like he has a thousand times before.

With a grunt of frustration, he whirls on his foot and thunks his head against the wall.

Kosmo comes to the bedroom door and barks once.

“Kosmo,” Lance admonishes. 

The door opens.

Kosmo barrels down the hall, his nails clicking and his tongue hanging out and his tail wagging. He skids to a stop in front of Keith and barks again, just once and cheerfully. Keith, still half-leaned into the wall, blinks down at him.

Lance stays at the open bedroom door. “You’re home,” he says.

Yes, Keith thinks.

He lifts his eyes but Lance’s face is mostly in shadows. Lance drums his long fingers against the doorframe. He seems tall and specter-like; far away and near.

Yeah, romantic and useless.

“Seriously?” Lance groans. “Nothing?”

He whirls away, hands in the air, and scrambles back onto their bed. Kosmo hurries after him, and then Keith follows, shuffling in his socks and tugging at his hair.

Lance has nested against their battered headboard with his textbooks and highlighters and his neat binder of notes. He glares down at his open Bio textbook on his knees but his eyes don’t move and he fidgets, clicking and unclicking the cap of a pastel red highlighter. Kosmo bounds onto the bed and curls up at Lance’s feet.

Keith pauses just inside their bedroom and tries and fails to unstick his throat. He scratches idly at his elbow. Lance continues to glare straight down, his eyes unseeing and his fingers twitching and the pen cap click-clacking-click-clacking. Kosmo blinks his big eyes up at Keith, waiting.

He crawls onto the bed and flops back against the pillows next to Lance, his hands on his stomach.

“You’re really not going to say anything,” Lance mutters.

Keith licks his lips. He squirms back against the pillows a little more and he studies Lance’s profile. “If I talk,” he says, finally. “I’ll yell.”

“Yelling is better than nothing.”

“It’s not.”

“Lance—”

Lance snaps the textbook shut and drops his highlighter. “You just _shut down_. Again! Complete and total silence. And, dude, I try to give you space—”

“Dude,” Keith echoes in a mutter.

“You don’t get to make fun of me right now,” Lance grunts and shoves his textbook from his knees. It hits the floor with a _thunk_ that startles Kosmo. “You _really_ don’t—seriously, Keith, I just don’t know what to do. I can’t make you talk, I can’t make you listen when _I_ talk—”

“I listen,” Keith says.

Lance gestures at his face, the smeared blue on their cheeks dancing with his shifting his expression. “Just not responding.”

“What do you want me to respond to, Lance?” Keith snaps. “The duck on my face?”

“It was a goose!”

And it’s so ridiculous Keith wants to bang his head against the wall again. He digs the heels of his palms against his eyes. “Lance,” he groans.

“Talking is _not_ just saying my name over and over.”

“Then give me the space to talk!”

Kosmo bounces from the bed and pads his way out the door.

Keith pulls his hands from his face and blinks up at the ceiling, trying to calm the rush of angered heat in his chest. He shifts his gaze to Lance and endures the full brunt of Lance’s eyes, blue and bright and upset.

“Sorry,” Keith says.

“You’re going to have to be specific for this one.”

Keith rolls his eyes and huffs a breath out his nose. “For getting mad.”

“Don’t—” Lance cuts himself off and looks away. He stretches his legs out and presses back against the headboard. Keith stares at a spot on his chin and waits. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?”

“If you’re mad, you’re mad. That’s—that’s super sucky, yeah, but it’s just a feeling, Keith.”

“Not a great one,” Keith sighs. “You don’t deserve that.”

“I don’t deserve having pissed off Keith thrown at my face,” Lance says. “But you’re not even doing that. You’re not giving me anything, Keith.”

“I’m trying,” Keith says, and it feels good and heavy on his tongue so he says it again: “I’m _trying_.”

“I know,” Lance says. “I know. But this is kind of the theme for our whole relationship, isn’t it? You—feel something and you think it’s bad so you shut down and you just leave me.”

“I don’t leave.”

“You might as well,” Lance says. He picks at a stray thread of the blanket. “When you go quiet, I don’t know what you’re thinking or how you’re feeling and then I get upset and talk a bunch and whatever. And then a couple of days later we just go back to normal.”

“Yeah,” Keith allows. He squirms back on his elbows and rolls onto his side. Lance looks down at him.

“If you’re mad or you’re sad or you’re embarrassed or whatever you’re feeling, I want to know. I can’t hear what you don’t say. And I can’t do all the talking in our relationship.”

“Except you do,” Keith says, quieter than he wanted.

“Then talk!”

“Then listen!” Keith rolls away, his head slumped uncomfortable against the headboard and the pillows an awkward support under his shoulders. “I can’t—talk if you won’t listen.”

“I want to listen,” Lance mumbles.

“Okay,” Keith says.

“Okay.”

Kosmo clicks from the kitchen to the living room. Keith hears him turn three times then drop with a thunk to his favourite spot on the carpet. 

“I just get frustrated,” Keith says. “And then we’re fighting. And I don’t want to fight and I don’t want to yell.”

“So you stop talking.”

“And you start talking.”

“And drawing,” Lance adds drily.

“I know you’re just trying to get my attention, but when you draw on our faces—”

“Nah,” Lance says, squirming down to lie next to Keith. “I’m trying to make you mad with that.”

“Rude,” Keith grunts.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Me too.”

They are quiet for a moment. Keith imagines he can hear Kosmo snoring in the dark of the living room.

“Our bond’s special,” Lance says, breaking the silence with soft, tentative words. “At least to me. But sometimes it’s like you’re scared of it, or you don’t like it. Or something.”

“I don’t know how to use it,” Keith admits. “I think I got so used to just not—”

“It’s not about using it,” Lance cuts in. “It’s about feeling it.”

They tilt towards each other. Keith brushes his fingertips against the edge of Lance’s hand.

“I don’t know what that means,” Keith mumbles.

“I know.”

He reaches the rest of the way and takes sweaty, sticky hold of Lance’s hand. Lance twists their fingers together.

“It’s about trying,” Lance says softly, almost whispers. “I’ll try, too. I promise.”

“I love you,” Keith tells him.

“Yeah,” Lance replies brightly. “I’ve never doubted that.”

Keith smiles. “Never?”

“I’m a loveable guy.”

“Yes,” Keith agrees, squeezing Lance’s hand.

***

“Told you so,” Keith says smugly the day Adam moves back in. “Soulmates never break.” He has fresh dots on his arms, both in the dark of his own marker and the blue of Lance’s side of their bond.

Adam looks up from a box and rubs some sweat from his neck. He rolls his shoulders. He cleans his glasses. He stalls and stalls until he finally looks at Keith and says: “That’s not why we’re back together, Keith.”

“Uh huh,” Keith says, skeptical and bored.

“Love starts there,” Adam continues, poking Keith in the shoulder once. Keith bats his hand away. “But it grows here.” He gestures at his own chest and smiles when Keith gags.

Even then, embarrassed and pleased all at once, Keith knew that this was true.

***

He wakes in the middle of the night feeling sweaty and suffocated with Kosmo sleeping on his legs and Lance drooling against his chest. He still feels sticky from work and that special dozey kind of happy that comes with affection and hand-holding and Lance’s lingering kisses. Starlight, he remembers.

He squirms away. Both Kosmo and Lance huff but curl up together, hogging the bed.

Keith makes a cup of tea. He brushes his hands through his messy hair while he waits for the kettle and he traces the letters of Lance’s sticky-note reviews on the outside of their collection of mismatched tea bags.

He turns away from the counter and goes to their overfilled bookshelf in the living room. He knows what he needs and finds it in the dark, the slim volume comfortable and flexible in his hands. He misses the soft beep of their kettle and forgets about his tea and he squirrels away in the bathroom with a marker from on top of their microwave. He holds the book open with a boxed tube of toothpaste and tucks his shirt into the waistband of his sweats and, with no one there to see it, lets his tongue peek out the corner of his mouth as he writes on his chest: _There’s another skin inside my skin/that gathers to your touch, a lake to the light_ … 

***

The next morning, Lance finds, in soft red and small letters against his chest, crooked lines of poetry. It startles him, at first, like a forgotten bruise or new wound, and then settles like the tracing of delicate and beloved flowers against the arc of emotion dancing from his brain to his hands to his eyes. He is a child again, waking in the night with starlight on his skin and sleepy surprise on his eyes, finding his often silent soulmate scattering words and thoughts and memories along their arms and legs and across their stomachs. It’s a line drawn from him to Keith.

Keith grunts and rolls away and buries his face against Kosmo’s fur, but Lance peppers grateful kisses all over his face grumpy face all the same.

“Nerd,” he admonishes with affection. “You’re getting predictable.”

Keith scowls and Lance loves him fiercely.

On-screen, the image of their other selves - brighter, happier, more in love - wavered in and out of white and grey.

“The signal is breaking up,” Slav muttered, approaching the console and muttering to himself as he began typing. “The storm is easing off.”

Lance watched his own smile blur into fuzz and static, ghostly outlines jostling around on a bed in a haze of kisses and laughter and enthusiastic dog; his own mouth dry and his chest empty. He stared until all trace of that life disappeared and the only Lance around was himself: sitting in an uncomfortable pilot chair with too much on his mind and no words to say.

“Huh,” he forced out at last, voice weirdly disconnected from the rest of him. “Didn’t know you were a romantic.”

“I’m not.”

Lance turned in time to meet Keith’s eyes; to see them dart away again. He was careful to keep his tone gentle; not ready yet to break the spell with teasing. “Poetry?”

Keith glared at his own hands. “I’m not good with words. Other people can explain better.”

Cute. “It was nice,” he said then, smiling away Keith’s surprise; pretending he couldn’t feel the tears threatening to escape into the dry air. “Seems like I’m a lucky guy.”

Keith swallowed, audible even over Slav’s continued technical murmuring. “You were pretty mad.”

“Yeah,” he admitted, smiling more freely now, damp creeping into his eyes despite his wishes. “But Mom always said the more you care about your partner the more angry you can get with them.”

Keith made a low, noncommittal sort of noise in the back of his throat, considering. Lance blinked rapidly until his lashes didn’t stick. The screen made a whining noise that swiftly faded with a flurry of Slav’s fingers.

“Guess _I’m_ the really lucky one then,” Keith offered. Lance sucked in a gasp, a bubble of air held on his tongue. A silence on a knife-edge.

“Lance…”

Oh pickles, it was happening. Was it really happening? Were they going to…?

“…do you think, maybe… after all this, we could -”

_“Woah._ ” Pidge’s familiar voice filled the cockpit; tinny from the speakers. Keith jumped the same time Lance did, hands jumping to bayards on reflex. _“I hope the Galra have insurance, because that thing’s a write-off.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the poem keith writes against their chests is flowers by anne michaels, which is like...my go-to klance poem. this is also where this piece’s title comes from.
> 
> it goes as follows:
> 
> There's another skin inside my skin  
> that gathers to your touch, a lake to the light;  
> that looses its memory, its lost language  
> into your tongue,  
> erasing me into newness.
> 
> Just when the body thinks it knows  
> the ways of knowing itself,  
> this second skin continues to answer.
> 
> In the street - café chairs abandoned  
> on terraces; market stalls emptied  
> of their solid light,  
> though pavement still breathes  
> summer grapes and peaches.  
> Like the light of anything that grows  
> from this newly-turned earth,  
> every tip of me gathers under your touch,  
> wind wrapping my dress around our legs,  
> your shirt twisting to flowers in my fists.


	8. They Taste Like Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah; I hope you're enjoying the holidays whatever you celebrate!

Lance was still recovering from Pidge’s interruption when Hunk’s voice followed hers through the communication channel.

_“Yeah… even I can’t fix that. Shuttle looks like it did ten rounds hand-to-hand with Voltron. You guys alright?”_

It was Slav who answered, working over the rewired console system. “All present and correct. We’ll need extraction without compromising the craft’s remaining integrity. The entropic forces -”

“ _-working on it,”_ Pidge chimed in. Shiro followed up.

_“Confirm no injuries, please?”_

Slav waved a hand at each of them; gesturing to join him on the comms. Keith leaned over and messaged in, voice a little raspy; pink clinging to his cheeks like a caress. “We’re fine. We completed the mission.”

“Keith has a cut on his forehead,” Lance reported quickly, nudging the other paladin. “It’s not serious but some of that sweet Altean juju would be great.” Keith rolled his eyes; Lance stuck his tongue out.

 _“Okay, roger that,”_ Shiro continued. “ _Pidge thinks we can temporarily modify the Castle’s shields to hold back the worst of the storm. We’re going to send Hunk and Yellow to pick the shuttle up whole and bring you in to the landing bay.”_

“Wait! Wait, WAIT!” cried Slav frantically, elbowing Lance aside with multiple elbows. “What did Hunk have for breakfast this morning?!”

“ _Slav -”_ Shiro growled.

 _“It’s not like there’s much choice,”_ Hunk answered, forlorn. _“There are only so many things you can do with green goo.”_

“Scrambled? Toasted? Sausages? BLANCMANGE?!”

“ _Pancakes, sorta. I just can’t get the fluffy consistency, and it isn’t the same without maple -”_

Slav rounded on Keith, leaning far too close; beak nearly brushing his nose. He leaned back hard into his seat. “Quick! What colour underwear are you wearing?”

“I - what?”

“ _Slav, I swear, I will come down there myself and –"_ Shiro’s voice was heavy over the connection.

Slav reeled backwards, top pair of his hands slamming to his cheeks like a rendition of _The_ _Scream_ , jowls wobbling. “Oh no, if you’re not wearing any -!”

“Black!” Keith shouted, over the top of him. “I – they’re black.”

“Black?!” 

Lance sucked air through his teeth and held it in his chest while Slav sank back onto his tail, calculating rapidly on his fingers. The stale air closed in on them.

 _“Uh… Slav?”_ Pidge asked, after a moment’s breathless panic. _“Are we good to go?”_

“What?” asked the engineer, head suddenly popping up. “Oh. Yes, sounds fine. But the drinks machine will fall over.”

The comms cut off in the middle of Shiro’s frustrated scream.

“Lance?”

“Hey, Keith.”

It was nearly midnight by the Castle clock, and while Lance was normally the first to espouse the advantages of beauty sleep, there seemed little point in lying in his bunk while visions crawled past his eyes. So he’d trekked up to the bridge to sit small and quiet in front of the vastness of space. Only this time he wasn’t straining for a pinprick of light that might be his own sun – he was watching the boiling purple of the planet they’d crashed into shrink from a ferris wheel to a dinner plate in the dark.

He’d still put his facemask on, though. He wasn’t a complete philistine.

Keith’s boots squeaked against the rubberised floor as he came over. Honestly, Lance didn’t think he’d ever seen Keith in pyjamas and it had never occurred to him to wonder about it before. He was wearing his familiar clothes, minus the jacket, when he settled on the floor nearby. Close enough to reach out and touch, if he wanted.

And he did.

“Are you okay?” Keith asked, voice low despite the empty room. He sounded nervous, hesitant, but Lance relaxed a little. He’d been afraid, part of him – the most honest part – that whatever spell or bubble had been around them had burst when their crumpled craft was cracked open. That whatever was there – whatever had _changed_ – would disperse along with the stale air of the cockpit. The fact Keith asked, the fact he was _here_ , proved that wasn’t so.

He couldn’t help but feel he’d got a lot from Keith today. He offered him a smile.

“Yeah, I’m alright. Not ready to sleep yet. It’s been a really weird day.”

Keith nodded, eyes travelling out to the moving void before them. “Hm.”

That wasn’t quite right, and the silence between them wasn’t either. Lance cleared his throat and started again, a little higher; little louder.

“Not _bad_ weird. Just strange, know what I mean?”

Keith must have been thinking about it, because several more stars slid past; the constant grey hum of the Castle’s systems seemed to grow louder in his ears. “Yeah. I guess.”

The conversation, such as it was, lapsed once more into the silence of the void. Thanks to that Lance heard the minute sounds of Keith fidgeting; of denim scraping together on his crossed legs, the faint creak of soft leather as his hands clenched.

“Does it bother you?” Keith asked at last, low and cracked and just shy of something raw and desperate that Lance might not have recognised before now, before tonight. “That we… everything we saw?”

No. It opened his eyes.

“No,” he said aloud. “No, it didn’t, but I…” his throat closed up, cutting him short. “Nevermind.”

More slight sounds of shifting; was Keith closer than he was before…?

“You can tell me,” he offered. “I mean, if you want. I won’t laugh.”

He knew that, now. “I’m kinda sad.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Keith stiffen in place; back a fraction straighter.

“Sad.”

It was flat; hard. A one-way ticket back to the way they were before, and Lance didn’t want that; didn’t want to let this new, slippery feeling they’d made together fall away in the wake of the planet left behind.

“I’m not sad about us,” he said firmly, twisting his body towards Keith, supporting himself with hands laid flat on the floor. The mask felt chill on his skin. “I’m… I’m kinda jealous, honestly.”

He barely heard Keith gasp; saw the little jump of his chest before he turned his head; veiled grey and violet meeting earnest blue. “Jealous?”

“All those dimensions,” he began, searching the words out as quickly as they came, “in all those worlds, they _knew_. They had absolute total concrete proof that someone was out there for them. Waiting; someone just right. Someone who was bound to love them. And we… we don’t.”

Keith was listening with the focus he normally reserved for flying; for drills; for all the things he loved with heart and soul. And Lance was going to ruin it by choking on his own words; with sticky emotion and a lump in his throat like trying to swallow his own tongue.

“We don’t have that. We’ve gotta find them all on our own. Even if we find them, it’s not like they’re necessarily soulmates. There might not even _be_ soulmates in this universe! Doesn’t that – doesn’t that make you sad?” he finished, racing the sobs that were crowding up on him.

He waited. So did Keith. Until Keith took a long, slow, steady breath and caught and held Lance’s eye. “You don’t know there are no soulmates in this reality.”

“There’s no proof -”

“There’s no proof there aren’t, either,” Keith insisted, hands curling up into fists, scraping the floor. “And even if there isn’t – so what? Why does it matter if you can still be happy?” He half-glared at Lance, daring him to object. He didn’t. He sat dumb, waiting for Keith to speak again. When he did it was low, deliberate, almost a growl. “Maybe… maybe we’re really the lucky ones.”

Lance swallowed, wishing his mouth was less dry and his eyes less wet. “How?”

“We don’t have to hang around waiting and hoping for this one person to turn up,” Keith went on, growing in strength. “We get to decide for ourselves. Who we want. Who we need… Maybe that’s it. Maybe we choose our own soulmates. Maybe we _make_ someone our soulmate, by… by… by trying hard enough, I don’t know. I don’t know!” he burst out, voice climbing, hands lifting from the floor, twisting where he sat to meet Lance head on. “I don’t know, Lance. I can’t give you any answers, I can just try – and that’s what I’m gonna do. You can’t just keep sitting around waiting for a sign!”

Keith was breathing too hard; hot against Lance’s face. “But how do you pick?” he whispered. “How do you decide who your soulmate should be?”

“I don’t know that either,” Keith growled. “It just sort of happened.”

His heartbeat climbed. “Yeah?”

“I – yeah.”

He thought about it. Or rather everything raced through his head while he picked at each flicker in Keith’s gaze: the offer he never got to finish in the shuttle, how it wasn’t just about looks, the smell of handsoap and the warmth of a solid body. Visions of poetry and magic; flowers, dreams, mullets and rockin’ abs. All of it. A hundred tiny little risks, and his turn to take one.

“Hey.”

“Yeah?” Keith’s voice wavered just a little.

“I think it just sort of happened.”

Lance would never forget seeing the whole starfield light up on Keith’s face; awe and wonder and shining light. “I want to kiss you,” he whispered, and Keith’s mouth peeled into a giddy smile.

They moved together like waves against the shore; Keith’s lips chapped and mouth warm and pliable and so much softer than he’d imagined against his own. Every push and touch a gift taken and received; a promise and a wish. It felt right and certain; as real as the hand sliding into his hair. When another touched his back, Lance jumped, nearly cutting his lip on Keith’s teeth.

“Sorry, sorry! What did I do?” Keith blurted, craning forwards with hands hovering just over Lance’s form. Some of Lance’s facemask had got smeared over his cheeks, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Nothing,” Lance replied, brushing away trailing gobbets, the warmth of the kiss filling him up like wine into a glass. “For a second there I thought it might be Slav again.”

Keith blinked. Then he laughed, cheeks balling and eyes turning to crescents, loud and real and echoing around the cavernous bridge. And Lance let him, giggling along and swiping his tongue to chase the taste of Keith from his mouth.

He tasted like hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, it's AlysFancosm again to bring our soulmate collab to a close. Thank you all so much for reading!
> 
> I feel really lucky to have participated in this fic with such talented people, nevermind write Keith and Lance's reactions to their wonderful stories. If there are writers here you haven't come across before, I'd totally recommend checking them out! You won't be disappointed.
> 
> And finally... Sara. We hope this collab has done something to brighten the end of a really tough year. We love you more than you know.

**Author's Note:**

> ... to be continued ... 
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'm AlysFancosm, and I'm the writer behind this chapter and all the exchanges in the crashed shuttle. The others have written amazing stories to follow this little intro. I know you'll love them - I did :) Next up is tjmcharg!
> 
> The title for this opening comes from another soulmate quote: 
> 
> "Soulmates aren't the ones that make you happiest, no. They're instead the ones who make you feel the most. Burning edges and scars and stars. Old pangs, captivation and beauty. Strain and shadows and worry and yearning. Sweetness and madness and dreamlike wonder. They hurl you into the abyss. They taste like hope." - Victoria Erickson


End file.
